The Embrace of Darkness
by Ornamental Nonsense
Summary: There would be an end to the entire ordeal. Spring was approaching with the promise of death, but not only death. Prim and Mercer both knew what they wanted, as did Karliah. The entire guild would be drawn into the conflict as choices long since made collided.
1. Chapter 1

**Chronology:**

Winter in Riften

Learning the Hard Way

Taking a Sick Day

The Shadow's Reach

Impropriety

Chasing Shadows

* * *

The Bee and Barb was having a slow night. Talen-Jei swept a rag over the counter while a few customers lingered at the tables, the loiterers either too drunk or too lazy to move. Some of them probably had nowhere better to go, and others had taken a room for the night. The latter, however, were already abed at this time, leaving the bar area quiet but for the occasional refilling of a tankard or a particularly loud snore. At least one patron was asleep, his head on the table while Keerava collected coins from his pocket for an unfinished drink. The Argonian shook her head and moved back to the bar, glancing in the darkest corner of the room, where a lone figure sat.

Mercer Frey wasn't drinking, and he hadn't bought food. No doubt the proprietor wondered why he was present, leaning back in his chair and keeping no one's company. He was conscious of the Argonian's passing interest, and equally so of the woman sitting alone at the fireplace. Her blond hair and armor stood out among the room's ragtag collection of locals, especially given the sword at her waist. He hadn't come to watch her—hadn't come for any reason other than Maven—but found his eyes fixed on her nonetheless. The puppy wasn't with her tonight. Was she meeting Prim?

_Prim Bleaksnow_, he mused.

They had spoken little since returning from the Winterhold region. Sometimes she stopped by his desk to ask about work, but nothing of interest had arrived, so he told her to go bother Brynjolf. She was apt to follow the directive, but wasn't taking as many jobs as expected. That much was certain, and they'd been back in Riften for two fetching weeks already. She'd completed one theft in that time—one!—and hadn't been seen in the last four days. Brynjolf hadn't asked about her whereabouts either, telling Mercer that _someone_ knew where she was; it just wasn't him.

The front door opened, and a woman stepped inside, finely dressed and with sharp features framed by raven hair. She fancied herself a queen. She might as well have been jarl, but one person Maven Black-Briar would not command was Mercer Frey. She'd wanted to meet earlier, and he'd declined, hardly in the mood to deal with her. Now she'd kept him waiting. Tit for tat. She strode into the room and swept eyes over its occupant, eventually locating him in his shadowed corner. A slow smile touched her face as she strode closer.

"I kept you waiting," she stated.

"Not long," he dismissed. He could strip the woman's house bare anytime he chose, all while she slept. Good for her that their relationship was so mutually beneficial. "Why did you want to meet, Maven?"

"Straight to business as always," she appraised, not bothering to sit down. "I have reason to believe that Sven Straight-Bow was supplying information to Honningbrew and that pest at Goldenglow throughout the entire affair. Maul was digging in the dirt like usual. He thinks Sven might still be in contact with the person responsible, although not recently."

"I'll look into it," Mercer drawled, showing no interest.

"I trust you will. I want this person to pay as much you do."

_No, you don't_. Although Maven's penchant for punishment was reliable and swift. He appreciated that about the woman—that and her cold taste for business. They were qualities Prim would hate, and likely the same ones that had made her steal from a king. Part of him waited for the day Maven woke up to find her most precious belongings gone, likely sunken in Lake Honrich. He would wring Prim's neck, of course. The guild needed Maven's support, even as he constantly sought other sources of gold. He would see the woman's influence curtailed before he was through, retained but reduced to a more controllable level.

"You're starting to look a little unkempt, Mercer," Maven mused. "A haircut and shave might do you well. Until another day."

She could kiss his boots, and now his time in the tavern was done. He was rising when a newcomer passed Maven in the doorway. The two woman briefly regarded one another, one impervious and the other ironclad. Then the moment was gone, the door swinging shut with a bang. He immediately settled back into his chair, fully focused on an exhausted Prim. She looked more worn than the day he'd drug her onto the tundra, when they'd been forced to sleep outside in one of Skyrim's most inhospitable regions. She had molded herself so willing against him, pulling his arms closer during the night, and mumbling something about his scent in her sleep. Would she be so willing now, if he grabbed and took her upstairs?

Prim joined Mjoll at the fireplace, hitting the chair hard. There was blood on her neck, and she dabbed a finger at it, seemingly surprised by its presence. The women shared muted words, and then Prim suddenly broke into laughter, tugging a braid over her shoulder and fiddling with it as the conversation picked up. There was a cloth bag on the floor beside her, clearly unsuited to travel or whatever rough-and-tumble she'd survived. She had better not get herself killed or incapacitated before winter broke, and never for some errant mission to destroy bandits or vampires.

"No!" Prim gasped with a smile, loud enough to make lingering customers turn. She grinned and lowered her voice while scooting her chair closer to Mjoll. Her brown eyes captured the firelight, her braid messy and coming undone. Mercer relaxed further into the shadows, unseen and unheard.

Such a sharp woman. She'd connected more between Nocturnal, the guild, and recent events than anyone else had. No one even suspected how far the tangled web reached, and here this thief who was not a thief was following each thread. She could easily become a problem. He'd known it as soon as she'd returned from Goldenglow, and if discovered, the truth would perhaps poison her as much as it had Karliah, only Karliah had already grown wary of him before the truth came to light. That Prim trusted him so readily would make any wound scab over all the more, scarring her beautiful body.

_She has worse scars._

_ "I'd miss you."_

The line ran through his mind, insistent and growing louder as he watched her lips purse in thought. Mjoll handed over a small letter, and Prim untied the ribbon binding it. Those lips turned downward, frowning before quivering. For a moment, Mercer didn't appreciate what was happening, but a sharp intake of breath and watering eyes quickly destroyed what remained of the woman's countenance. She was crying, almost silently, but crying all the same, right in the middle of a sodding tavern. Mjoll moved to wrap an arm around Prim, and blocked his view, making him scowl.

"Is everything alright?" Talen-Jei asked, drifting closer.

"Yes. We're fine," Mjoll answered.

_Move already,_ Mercer mentally ordered. The woman did not, not until Prim stood to throw her letter into the fire, after which the two watched it burn to nothing. Tears streaked Prim's cheeks, catching and reflecting light before she wiped them away. He had never seen her cry like this—had never seen her look torn by sorrow. Those tears on the tundra had slipped free from a face of fear and pain, not sorrow. He had been surprised then, and equally so now. What could possibly upset the woman so?

_"I thought you were gone."_

He indulged in memory—her fingertips behind his ear, lips on his scalp, chest rising and falling in the bed beside him. Damn this woman. She was too dirtied to be so caring. She was collecting her belongings now, leaving while his curiosity was left far from satisfied. He watched the door close behind her, and counted down before following. She probably wouldn't notice an ogre following her at this rate. The fool was sniffing so loudly that he might have traced her path with his eyes closed, and when she disappeared into the cistern, he quickly followed.

* * *

Prim scrubbed the tears from her cheeks before descending into the cistern. Her eyes would still be red and puffy, but the worst of it needed to go. Losing composure like this was unacceptable, especially over such a natural and inevitable part of life as death. People aged until one day their hearts refused to beat any longer. It was simply the way of things, yet the shock remained. She had not expected a letter today let alone news of someone's passing, and this when she'd promised to return to _Jorrvaskr_ before spring came and guild duties called. If she'd made the trip sooner, she would have seen Tilma one last time. Now she would never speak with the woman again.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, and kept her head lowered to hide her current state. Her braid was tugged loosed, providing a curtain of hair for further protection. She only need a few moments to recover from the shock, just a few. It was late and many of the other thieves were already abed, granting much needed solitude. There was time to breathe and let the tension go.

She glanced up and saw Mercer at his desk, gray eyes fixed on her before he began sorting through documents. He did not sit and looked almost restless, as though he might depart at any moment. She averted her gaze, and swung her feet around to sit on the other side of the bed. He did not need to see her sorrow, although it was probably too late. After what had happened on the tundra, he would likely think her soft.

"Prim? Everything alright, lass?"

Brynjolf was laying on the bed next to hers, drowsy but peering at her in interest. His eyes quickly settled on her damp eyes, and he immediately sat up with a roll of his shoulders. She offered him a weak smile, unable to hold it steady as he frowned.

"I'm alright," she said.

"And my mother was a giant. You don't look alright." His feet dropped over the edge of his bed, and he quickly joined her, sitting cautiously as though he feared it unwelcome. He wore leather pants and a tunic, thick socks on his feet for sleeping. "Did something happen on your job?" he asked.

"No. I cleared a few bandits out from a fort. That's all." She drew her legs onto the bed and exhaled. "I heard news from Whiterun tonight."

"Bad news?" he guessed.

"Is it that obvious?" she tried to laugh, but it fell flat. "Oh fine. There was an old maid in _Jorrvaskr, _more like our grandmother than anything. She'd been there longer than Kodlak. One time, she even tried teaching me how to stitch so I could..." Her voice cracked, and she frowned almost angrily. "...So I could fix my own 'stinking socks' from all the holes I put in them. She died the evening before last."

"Ah lass," Brynjolf soothed. "I'm sorry to hear that. Was it an easy death?"

"Yes. Farkas found her asleep in her favorite chair. He thought she was taking a nap."

One last tear slid free, and she wiped it away. Brynjolf's smile was warm and caring, as was the arm he wrapped around her. She leaned into him and sighed, remembering all the kind gestures that Tilma had made, and all of her wonderfully sharp comments as well.

"It was her time to go," Brynjolf spoke.

"I know. I just wasn't expecting it. I was so foolish bursting into tears, Bryn. Right in the Bee and Barb of all places!"

"Not foolish, lass. It's never easy to lose someone, even when you know it's coming."

She thought of Gallus and what it must have been like for Brynjolf to lose his father figure. Perhaps he'd never known a family beyond the guild. Suddenly feeling like a useless lump of lard propped against him, she gently pulled away, pushing her hair back and offering him a meek smile.

"Sorry for waking you up."

"You're apologizing?" he admonished with a smile. "Swallow it, lass. I'll not have you apologizing over such a thing. By morning, you'll have dry eyes."

"Sooner than that," she vowed.

"Aye. Your friend was old and is returned to youth now. There's little to mourn in that. I wouldn't think less of you for crying until morning though. Surely you know that."

He stared into the distance, gaze unfocused.

"Do you still think about Gallus's death all these years later?" she asked.

"As surely as you think about your mother's," he stated. "But the pain dulls after awhile, doesn't it? After you accept it. Now I can remember the fond things about him, not just how painful it was when he left us. My one hope is that he died well." She laid a hand on his thigh, as though he were the one in need of comforting, although the gesture was more for herself. His hand covered hers and gave a squeeze. "Look at us sitting here like two crying doves."

"Not doves," she weakly joked. "They don't live in sewers."

"No? I don't fancy comparing myself to a skeever."

"Stop," she nudged him. "Oh, I must a look a mess."

"But you're feeling better?" he probed.

"Not better, but more in control."

Divines, she really would have been a mess if Mercer had died on their trip. She'd handled death so indifferently for so long, yet some of the people she'd allowed into her life here in Skyrim...she couldn't be indifferent to them. Thieves at least were always risking their lives, but Tilma hadn't been a warrior destined to die in battle or sneaking into danger. Maybe that was why Prim felt so blindsided, and Mercer...Divines, but what about Mercer? Simply going after Karliah held the possibility of death, but she couldn't imagine him dieing.

"Vilkas said they're scattering her ashes in two days," she shared. "I'd like to be there to pay my respects. It's only right. She didn't have any blood relatives left."

"Then you should go, but not alone. You shouldn't be going anywhere alone after what happened with the assassins. That's not up for debate," he firmly added when she frowned.

"Dagon's balls," she murmured. "I'm not a child."

"It's got nothing to do with that," he corrected her. "The others weren't targeted. They don't need to be as cautious, but you're a different story. Would you really object to some company? I'll go with you."

"You don't mind?" she asked, making him chuckle. "What about the guild?"

"Mercer will mind the guild. He's not going anywhere. The man's practically a caged wolf in case you haven't noticed, and that's not likely to change until spring. The snow can't melt fast enough for him."

"Because of Karliah," Prim knowingly stated. "He was so frustrated that we couldn't reach her. I...I don't wish to pry, Bryn, but you don't seem to want her dead as badly as Mercer does."

"I would like to see justice for Gallus," he spoke. "But it's been a long time since I yearned to shed blood for him. She should die, lass. Don't misunderstand me on that point, but if anyone deserves to take her head, it's Mercer. He knew Gallus far longer than I did, and I wasn't as close to Karliah. Until now, I accepted that she'd faded into the darkness. I certainly never thought to see her again, and I made terms with that—let go of the anger. It wasn't worth keeping. Now..." His green eyes brimmed with conviction as they found hers. "I'll go after her if I get the chance, but it's not something I need to do. I'm not driven to it like Mercer is."

"Twenty some years is a long time," Prim mused.

"Aye. Loss heals, lass. You remember that while you think about your friend."

She nodded, knowing such truths, but also knowing that it took time. She would help scatter Tilma's ashes and close this chapter in life, saying goodbye as best she could. Brynjolf stood and pulled on his boots, a jacket sliding over his tunic.

"I'll let Mercer know that we're leaving in the morning," he stated.

"Do we need to tell him?" she questioned, glancing over her shoulder. The guildmaster was sitting now, seemingly focused on the ledger, although it was difficult to tell from this distance. "We can do a job while we're out to make it worth guild time. He was short-tempered yesterday. Sapphire said that he reamed out Vipir for botching a job."

"It's nothing I can't handle," the redhead dismissed. "I'd rather tell him now than come back and find out he needed something and couldn't find us. If you're still feeling sad, you might head over to the Ragged Flagon. Delvin is having one of his nights. I'm sure that he wouldn't mind company."

"I think that's a good idea."

And the only appealing option she had, especially since accompanying Brynjolf to Mercer's desk would mean exposing her puffy eyes to the guildmaster. She'd rather keep her dignity intact as she rose and headed for the Flagon, and really, her gut just knew that Mercer would be displeased with what Brynjolf shared.

The tavern was quiet, only one lantern remaining lit. It hung from the ceiling over the bar, a brazier set in the room's middle nearly extinguished, although the hot coals still burned. Delvin Mallory had pulled a chair close to the meager flames, and nursed a tankard, seemingly oblivious to Prim's arrival until she drew into the light. She greeted him and pulled a chair over to his side, wondering what kept the man awake. Of course, he always kept odd time, often the last to leave the Flagon on any given night, but sometimes he lingered well into morning with nothing but his own company. For someone who spoke their mind so bluntly, the man could be downright secretive when he wished it.

"Well, well," he mused. "There's another soul awake."

"I'm not sleepy," she responded. "And figured you could use some company on your solitary vigil."

"Is that how it is?" he smiled, sounding as gruff as ever. Even when he whispered, his baritone carried more than other voices. "I suppose that's why your eyes are all red. Keeping me company is a terrible burden."

"Ha. Very well," she conceded. "I'm heading out tomorrow for a funeral."

"Oh? Serious stuff, funerals. I only went to one. Decided I didn't need to go to another." He finished off his tankard and set it on the floor, rolling his neck to work out the kinks. "I'm flattered you want my company, but I'm not sure I'll be the best thing for you right now."

"Don't be silly," she smiled. "I think you're perfect company right now. Something's clearly under your skin too. We might as well sit and be miserable together."

"You ain't going to cry, are you?" he asked.

"No. I promise."

Delvin probably wouldn't know what to do with a crying woman, although he'd proven rather sympathetic on various occasions. His manner and bluntness seemed but the trappings of a warm heart to her. _A diamond in the rough_, she decided. Delvin was utterly unrefined, but wonderful nonetheless. She eyed his tankard and considered grabbing one for herself, but decided against it. She didn't need alcohol to muddle with her emotions.

"So you know what's bothering me," she stated. "But what about you?"

"Can't a man enjoy a little quiet in his favorite tavern?"

"Sure," she shrugged. "But I know you a bit better than that."

His face turned, and she noticed a discoloration and puffiness near his right eye, as if he'd been hit. Given the lack of darker bruising, it'd either been a light strike or only recently received.

"Divines, Delvin. I hope you didn't get into another match with Maul."

"I can handle a bet with Maul. Don't you worry about that. This beauty," he said, pointing to the tender flesh, "was a gift from Vex."

"What did you do?" Prim leveled, not unkindly but critical enough. "If you're serious about her, Delvin, you've got to change tactics."

"Oye, woman," the man frowned. "What makes you think I deserved a slap to the face?" He grumbled and crossed his arms, looking away from her. She immediately regretted being so critical, especially when this was obviously bothering him. "And I've never said a thing about being serious. She's a right beauty, of course. Damned good thief too."

"Alright," she relented. "Maybe I spoke too soon. So how did you get slapped?"

He was silent a moment, a boot tapping against the floor.

"I kissed her."

"What? Really? Like full on the mouth?"

"She was wonderful," he mused. "Didn't bite me or anything. We were in the training room and got to talking. The dim lighting seemed all right. You women like that sort of thing."

Not in a musty training room. Not really, but Delvin had at least made an effort to get it right. Maybe he'd taken Sapphire's lecture on wooing women seriously after all, but Prim's mind was still slightly boggled. She frowned in thought.

"So wait," she spoke. "Vex kissed you back?" He said nothing. "Delvin, did she kiss you back? That's important."

"I think so, yeah," he affirmed. "She didn't say anything though. I'm not sure whether that's good or bad. Usually I'm already taking someone to bed when the kissing starts. She just sort of...she left."

"After slapping you?"

"Nah. That's what she did when she saw me in the Bee and Barb. Complete misunderstanding. That drunk woman fell on my lap while blabbering about some guy named Sam."

"Oh, Delvin," Prim sighed with a smile.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's a good thing she slapped you."

"Tell that to my face."

"I'm being serious. If she didn't like you, she wouldn't have bothered. She didn't like the other woman being on your lap after you kissed her."

_ Just like you wouldn't begrudge Haelga so much if Mercer didn't visit her._ She inwardly cringed, again so very aware that the distance between herself and the guildmaster had returned since their trip. Maybe the breakdown of barriers had been illusionary after all, but after everything they'd been through and shared, surely she wasn't just some disposable recruit anymore.

"You've got a chance with Vex," she stated. "I think so at least."

"Maybe I'll kiss her again and see."

"Maybe you should explain what happened first."

"I don't know why women need so many steps between meeting and getting cozy," he grumbled, but a playfulness had returned to his voice, telling Prim that he wasn't entirely serious about the comment. "She hasn't been with anyone since Vald. That was months ago. She must be ready for a tumble."

"I don't need to hear any of that," Prim dully noted.

He chuckled and uncrossed his arms. Good. She'd helped lift his spirits, and she felt much better herself. She'd always known there was more to his interest in Vex than a passing whim. She felt vindicated as the man stretched his legs with a yawn.

"Don't do anything to ruin this," she warned. "Or I will slap you myself, Delvin. Vex isn't impulsive. If she's considering you, she's been thinking about it for awhile."

He said nothing as he stood and placed his tankard on the bar counter.

"You good to sleep, Prim?"

"Maybe. I'm going to stay here for a little. Go ahead. I'm not going to burst into tears."

_I'll just indulge in some nostalgia. _And she did, thinking on Tilma and the Companions, and before that, the long list of people she'd seen pass away. Some had died by her hand, some in front of her, others far away and the news only reaching her slowly. Her father had already been imprisoned and slated for execution when she'd fled Daggerfall. His fate had been sealed like so many others, but she'd promised him that she wouldn't bow to the king anymore. She could imagine that last meeting between them so perfectly, in the prison, where she'd been granted a single visit with him.

_"I'm leaving. Now that mother's gone, it will come for me."_

He'd understood—hadn't shed a tear as she just had for Tilma, or as she had for him as she'd left the prison. Stealing from the king had been for father and family as much as herself, and now that she knew the king had died by her hand, she wondered. Did her father live? Probably not. He'd been dead in her mind so long that she couldn't imagine him still being alive. Mourning was painful to bear, and dashed hope had the power to reignite it. Better to leave him dead, her tears already shed. As Brynjolf had said, it was best not to reopen old wounds.

* * *

Brynjolf knew that Mercer wouldn't be pleased with his words, not so much because two of the man's most valuable resources were taking a trip, but because it was for a funeral. He could perhaps omit a detailed reason and let Mercer think that this was guild business, but the man would know. He always knew. Lying to Mercer Frey and thinking it would go completely unnoticed was unwise, especially in such a case like this, when Prim's condition had almost certainly been noticed. No, Brynjolf had learned long ago that reporting all pertinent facts to the guildmaster was not only a matter of self-preservation, but good for the welfare of the entire guild. If the guild's leaders couldn't be honest with one another, they were in dire straits indeed.

"Prim and I plan to leave for Whiterun in the morning," he stated.

"Because?"

Mercer flipped the ledger on his desk shut, and granted Brynjolf undivided attention. The man had stopped working the moment Brynjolf had stood from Prim's bed, and the redhead knew it. He again thought of that desk drawer filled with notes about Prim and Karliah, and a trace of unease surfaced. His gut said that Mercer would be especially irked that Prim of all people was taking a trip, and he still couldn't pin down why the guildmaster had taken such an interest in the woman. There had been more sensuous and skillful recruits in the past. Vex was certainly eye-catching and talented, but Mercer had never spared her attention. Then there'd been that Redguard woman a while back, the one with the sultry voice and sharp sword. She'd been undeterred in her pursuit to bed Mercer, but after succeeding, learned that the man wasn't about to spare her time outside the bedroom. She'd wanted to gut Mercer before the gold had finally dried up, taking her with it.

The guildmaster wasn't bedding Prim. That much was clear to Brynjolf. He wasn't even entirely sure that Mercer's interest in the woman leaned that way, but then again, Mercer tended not to betray outward signs of attraction. He'd only learned about the Redguard's success because the woman had bragged about it. Well, that and she'd made an awful lot of noise that one time in the training room. In any case, everyone except Delvin seemed to be oblivious to Mercer's undo use of and interest in their newest member. The signs were subtle, yes, but Brynjolf made his gold catching subtleties.

"Someone close to her died," he explained. "She'd like to pay her respects."

"Did you know this person? Then I don't see why it requires two people."

"The lass shouldn't be going alone. We'll see what we can collect while we're there. We don't have much of a presence in Whiterun. It will do good to make a mark. Besides," he risked adding, "we can't put everything on hold until spring."

"Nothing is on hold," Mercer sternly countered.

"Aye. But it hasn't been a good month," Brynjolf dourly noted.

"Your little protégé's lack of work isn't helping."

"She's been training and working on combat. She's determined to be more than ready for spring. I wouldn't exactly call that a lack of work, Mercer. I told her how dangerous Karliah is."

"I don't suppose her training has anything to do with hunting bandits or trolls, does it?"

"She's a headstrong, lass," Brynjolf grinned. Mercer was touchy enough today without the conversation steering into tension. "I wouldn't put it passed it her. We both know that she keeps busy. The guild isn't all she has."

Mercer's silence was acknowledgement enough. They both knew of Prim's association with the Companions, but how much Mercer knew, he couldn't be sure. The man looked controlled but tense, jaw tightening before he reached into his desk and tossed a folder letter onto it.

"Take it. I expect a haul from Whiterun, and make sure it's clear that the guild's responsible. Maybe we can find some new clients."

Brynjolf carefully read through the letter's contents. There was a runaway mage hiding out in the Temple of Kynerath, and he carried a very valuable object taken from the Arcane University in Cyrodiil. The university wanted it back. The job sounded reliable and promising, almost like the kind they would have gotten in the old days.

"Who sent this to us?" he asked.

"The guild in Cyrodiil. They don't have the manpower to handle it, and the Thalmor have been collaborating with guards to root them out. They're not taking the risk of sending someone this far. This could be big," Mercer intoned. "Don't mess up."

"Never," Brynjolf smiled. "It's about time we had some good news."

He tucked the letter into his tunic and regarded the guildmaster with renewed energy. The man didn't look impressed by the job offer, but it boded well. Mercer was shrewd and would appreciate just how important this was.

"That's all," the man dismissed, attention again focused somewhere beyond Brynjolf.

"Aye. We'll see you in a few days."

He'd barely turned when the guildmaster rose and left.

* * *

Haelga ran a cloth over her statue of Dibella, polishing until it was as flawless and beautiful as the day she'd bought it. If those hooligans ever got into a jolly ruckus and dumped mead on the goddess again, she would kick them to the streets. How dare they tarnish lady Dibella! Most of them scoffed at her devotion, but not if they'd known everything that was involved with Dibellan arts. Oh no, if those men knew the things she could do, they would stare slack-jawed and moon-eyed. Dibella would take delight in their interest and sooth their need for affection, just as Haelga could but wouldn't. No, there were secrets to be kept, and the ones she selected were few.

There. The statue was clean and the candles at the base relit. It was too late to be cleaning, and she longed for bed. Throwing the rag down, she straightened the counter and made for the stairs, a faint click briefly making her pause in question. Maybe she'd heard nothing. She continued to her room and closed the door, incense thick in the air. Here was her sanctuary, where she opened her arms to those needful or otherwise desirous of physical touch. The power of touch was underestimated by so many, but she knew—oh, did she know!—that intimacy was integral to physical and spiritual well-being.

She removed her boots and outer clothing, leaving her in a simple dress. Sweet Dibella, she was tired. She never heard the lock on her door being picked, and didn't realize an intruder was present until his arms wrapped around her, one covering her mouth. She was trying to scream when a mouth met her ear.

"Don't tell me this isn't one of your fantasies."

She ceased struggling, unnerved but also aroused. The familiar voice could only be Mercer, the most difficult and infrequent of her guests. Difficult, because he clearly had no respect for Dibella nor her own purpose in bedding him. He was almost terrifying in his severity, and at first, she'd doubted approaching him, but by the nine, he was good. Quick and ruthlessly effective.

"How did you get inside?" she breathed.

"Tsk. Tsk, Haelga. The door, of course."

His cold tone frightened her. He was never exactly warm, but he seemed furious right now, both in tone and the harsh grip he kept on her waist, refusing to let her face him. He pulled her clothing off, even as he left his own intact. She knew that he was probably a hopeless case and that she should just tell him to leave, especially right now. He would never care a wit for her or Dibella, but as he pushed her forward, making her brace herself against the wall, she felt only ecstasy—ecstasy because more than ever, she felt just how much he needed this. He entered her quickly, setting a rhythmic pace and grinding into her oh so wonderfully. Yes, he needed this. The way his hands seized her hips and his breathing quickened—the very fact that he was here at this time of night—told her everything.

She lost herself in his movements, letting go and quickly followed by his release. He withdrew and spilled his seed onto the floor rather than within her, just as always. His arms wrapped around, their bodies molded together as they leaned against the wall. He didn't kiss or caress her. He never did, but his grip was almost possessively distressing tonight.

"If you needed this so badly, you could have knocked," she spoke, still recovering. "I would have let you in. I would have understood."

"Hmpf."

He released her, fastened his trousers, and left, just as silently as he'd arrived. She stood there a moment, and finally crumbled onto her bed, flushed and pleased. The woman who truly captured that man's attention would be blessed when it came to the erotic.


	2. Chapter 2

Prim stared at the clay oven while Vekel coerced a flame to life beneath it. It was a small, simple dome that rested atop a stone base, and had been built directly by the Ragged Flagon's fireplace. A small chimney worked well enough to funnel fumes away from the bar area, but just as with the fireplace, a hint of smoke and soot would always remain. It would be worse today, with both the oven and fireplace lit. Already, Prim's nose felt clouded, but she was long accustomed to the Flagon's myriad of scents. She passed Vekel a wooden paddle, and stepped back with a bemused expression.

"This is the surprise?" she questioned.

"I've wanted an oven for ages, Prim," he tartly replied. "I'll not have one more person nay say it. I spent all last week making it."

"It will make fine bread, Vekel," Tonilia spoke. "Don't worry."

The woman's voice was probably as close to comforting as it would ever come. She was a petite Redguard with whom Prim seldom interacted, and the woman did not speak gently, at least not in public, not even when dealing with Vekel. Of course, Prim had caught her reading a book of poetry one day, so perhaps there was another side to the taciturn thief. A romantic side? But the way Tonilia had frowned at the book, mouth silently sounding out words, suggested that the thief was not very adept at the task.

"I'll never need to buy bread again," Vekel vowed.

He slid a risen loaf into the oven, and stood there staring at it, as if he intended to watch the damned thing bake. Didn't that take a good deal of time? Prim hid a smile as she scooped up a bowl of porridge and topped it with two boiled eggs. It was a shame that she and Brynjolf would be gone before Vekel's first loaf was ready for eating. By the time the other thieves finally rose for breakfast, the Flagon would be filled with the aroma.

"Didn't you already eat?" Tonilia questioned.

"Yes, but this isn't for me. I've got a delivery to make. Vekel?" Prim drew the man's eye and laid a few coins on the counter. "I'll see you two in a few days. I expect the bread process to be perfected by then."

"Bah," Vekel dismissed. "The first loaf will taste just fine."

She was still grinning as she left the Flagon and entered the cistern. Everyone was asleep except for herself and the lone sentinel at the far side of the room. Mercer had arrived nearly at the same time she'd awoken, and she'd laid there in bed, watching him burn several documents in a brazier. One by one, they'd turned to flame, his expression distant, just as it was now. His movements were not as fluid as usual either, or so it seemed to her. She crossed the cistern's walkway while he paced behind his desk, feeling both eager and reluctant to approach him. There'd been few moments like this lately—moments when no one watched—and she ended up near him at such times, even if just to ask about possible work.

_I wish we were back at Braidwood._

He watched the last leg of her approach, his eyes flickering between the bowl she held and her face. With a frown, he pulled his chair out at a crooked angle and sat, one arm resting across the desk's edge, and his fingers tracing a circle on its surface. For a moment, Prim felt irrational hate for the piece of furniture, and imagined her sword hacking it to bits. She was sick of it standing between her and him whenever they spoke, and so she moved around it, feeling bold given her impending departure. There was no audience right now anyway.

"Good morning, Master Frey."

His eyes watched critically as she rounded the corner of the desk, the two now facing each other without a confounded barrier. She set the bowl down, and jammed a spoon into the mess.

"No man can survive on stubbornness alone," she declared. "Not even you."

"So you've finally come to your senses," he hummed. "You'll make a better maid than a thief. Go ahead and sweep while you're at it."

"Very funny," she leveled with a smile. "As if you actually mean that. I was just helping Vekel with breakfast and thought you might be hungry."

And she'd wanted an excuse to speak with him before leaving. Never mind that this gesture was small, even insignificant given how easily Mercer could order someone to fetch him food. Their interactions had simply been far too limited lately for her liking, partly warded against by pressing matters with the Companions and then his darkened mood. Last she'd spoken with him, the tension brewing within him had sent her away quickly, and he hadn't sought her out once since their return. It chafed at her, his absence, more so because there was no indication that their renewed distance bothered him like it did her. Still, she stood here now, and he wasn't sending her away.

"You've been doing jobs for the Companions lately," he noted.

"Which is why I left those looted purses on your desk. I know that I haven't exactly been taking guild jobs. That gold should make up for the difference."

"Barely," he mused. "I'm sure Jorrvaskr has a few artifacts worth stealing."

"Not if you offered me my deepest dreams," Prim clipped in refusal. "And you know it."

"I find that hard to believe," he scoffed. "Your deepest dreams must be quite shallow." He paused as if inviting her to correct him, but she held her tongue. She wasn't sure what her deepest dreams were, and even if she knew, wasn't about to blurt them out in the cistern. Such information was dangerous, and finally Mercer removed his eyes from her own. "Bring back something of value," he simply ordered.

"Brynjolf said that you gave him an important job, so I'm sure we will."

"If he's going with you, he's going to do more than hold your hand," Mercer growled, making Prim frown.

"He's not going to hold my hand. I can make the journey without someone to comfort me. Akatosh's mercy, I'm not incapacitated with grief. The only reason I'm not going alone is because of my being targeted by the Morag Tong and all."

"Really?" he quipped, terse and unconvinced.

Why was he being such an ass about this? She fought back a scowl, keeping herself calm.

"Mercer, do I look like I'm going to fall off Quilt from crying?" She pointed to her dry eyes for emphasis.

"The two of you have been disappearing together," he stated. "And neither of you have been bringing in as much gold as usual. We've barely made anything this month between Karliah's little antics and my thieves being paranoid about assassins."

"I've been..."

"You've been what?" he demanded, anger simmering so close to the surface that it flared behind his eyes. "The Companions have nothing to do with Brynjolf. If you're distracting him with such nonsense or keeping him from work, then I'm telling you to stop. Immediately," he emphasized, his words stone grinding stone.

For a moment, Prim could find no words to say. Her tongue floundered, taken aback by both Mercer's vehemence and the strange turn in conversation. The accusation was utterly ridiculous, although she _had_ been spending a lot of time with Brynjolf. She wasn't distracting and putting him on Mercer's bad side though, was she? Surely Mercer was overreacting.

"He's been helping me practice hand-to-hand combat," she explained. "I haven't been taking him on jobs outside the guild. I realize that would be unacceptable. He told me all about Karliah's skill, you know. He said that she never used a sword, but that she could fell people with stealth attacks and her hands. Something about dark elf fighting arts. If I'm disarmed when we're chasing her, I don't want to be defenseless."

He scrutinized her a moment longer, her features flushed in irritation. It was almost as if he didn't like her spending time with Brynjolf, but that was nonsense. He had no reason to dislike it now that he knew she wasn't keeping the man from guild business, not unless he disliked it for personal reasons. The thought made her stare at him quizzically, wonderment tickling her fingers and toes at the possibility. She suddenly wanted to teach out and touch him, just as she had at the Braidwood Inn, even if it was to shake him senseless. Touch had felt so forbidden lately, kicked to the canal.

"I don't care what you do in your own time," Mercer intoned. "But this trip to Whiterun had better make up for the last two weeks." He quite suddenly seized the bowl of porridge, and stabbed into the eggs on top with the spoon. "As for Karliah, she's not nearly as untouchable as you're starting to think. You're a match for her as long as it isn't a long distance competition."

"She almost killed you. I'm not taking chances," Prim spoke. "And I'm _not_ distracting Brynjolf," she added. "We'll be back soon. There's nothing wrong with a friend lending a little support now and then."

_Say something, you miserable man! _

Mercer blew steam from half a boiled egg and stuffed it in his mouth, gaze focused on the food. The idea of him being jealous worried her as much as it made her hopeful. The flush on her cheeks probably hadn't dissipated, and when he noticed it, a sneer crept up his face. She'd long suspected that he viewed her with a certain amount of lust, certainly since he'd interrupted her bath, but this outward reaction was new. Or was it? She took a step closer and remembered all the times the guildmaster had shown contempt when speaking to her about Brynjolf. She'd chalked it up to the idealogical differences that clearly existed between the men, but this made her wonder if there was something else. Whatever it was, it made intruding on his personal space all the more charged, and intrude she did. She stepped close enough that he tilted his head to look up at her.

"Maybe you should hire a maid to clean Riftweald," she suggested.

Her fingers entered his hair, dragging through it as she removed a clump of dust, likely fallen from one of the disused chandeliers in the manor. She held it for him to see and then dropped it to the floor. There was nothing else in his hair, but she ran her fingers through it once more anyway, suddenly wishing that she could stay all day. Divines, she'd missed touching him. As he seized her wrist and ran a thumb over the pulse, she regretted having not had the gumption to climb into his bed in Kynesgrove. She was tired of pushing her attraction aside and questioning how it would affect everything—questioning how _he_ might react,

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" he demanded.

"I think so?"

His eyes narrowed at her response, a tug on her wrist bringing her closer. She bumped into the chair's arm, and angled over him. Divines she wanted this man, but an abrupt break in soft snoring warned that Delvin was waking up. Others would follow. Tilma. She needed to pay her respects to Tilma. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Mercer's forehead, wanting to aim lower, but knowing there was limited time. His grip on her loosened as lips touched skin, as if he too sensed the need to end this now. Instincts said that this affection was not for others to see or even guess at. She slid away from him, his face devoid of emotion.

She departed quickly and without a word, not daring to look back as she collected her bag and told Brynjolf to meet her at the city gates. She indulged in but a quick glance as she climbed the ladder toward the graveyard. Mercer was speaking with Vex, apparently unaware or unwilling to spare time for her retreat. She would answer for this when she returned, either by his initiation or her own, she knew. The possibility had been unspoken at Kynesgrove, hinted at by a closer proximity between them than the situation required, but this crossed the line. She just hoped that she wouldn't regret it later.

* * *

Kodlak held a dish rimmed in garnets, and solemnly walked to the edge of the Skyforge. A strong breeze swept across Whiterun and the surrounding plain, catching Kodlak's white beard as his eyes closed. Prim stood in the leather armor that had been made here, on these very stones, and sighed as he threw the ashes skyward. The gray flecks caught and vanished almost immediately, her eyes following their flight over Jorrvaskr's roof. She was surrounded by her shield-siblings, and all was silent as heads bowed in respect and a final farewell.

The others were already shuffling away as she remained, her mouth silently offering the first prayer she'd spoken in ages. Her mother had recited it many times when begging for protection from the spectral that plagued her, never with results, but Prim knew no other prayer. What else did one say at a funeral but a prayer? Was this prayer even appropriate? Probably not, but she didn't know what else to do. At the end, almost as an afterthought, she spoke as a thief, not a warrior or her mother's daughter.

"Shadows guard you."

A hand touched her shoulder, and she raised her head. The others were gone, and only she and Kodlak remained. The man's wrinkled face bore a gentle smile, his broad shoulders imposing, but his manner anything but intimidating. She smiled at him with the realization of just how much she'd missed him and the Companions.

"It is good to see you," he said. "How have you been?"

"Well. I meant to come sooner, but I've been busy in Riften." It sounded like a pathetic excuse, and Kodlak chuckled with a shake of his head. His voice was a bear's, strong and sure, but this bear was hibernating. Serene.

"I did not mean to question your decision," he assured. "We have missed you, but people do not make roots until they are ready. If Riften is to your liking, then we will content ourselves with that. Your shield-siblings would not mind more frequent visits, of course, but that is your decision, not theirs."

She relaxed and joined him in walking down the Skyforge's steps, the way hewed from rock and leading toward the hall of the companions. The others seemed to have drifted back into the building already, behind which sat the training yard, its expanse only bearing light snow. Winter was lifting, and with it the worst of the cold.

"Tell an old man what you've been doing," Kodlak encouraged.

"Making a few friends and loads of trouble," she dryly mused. "I've gotten myself caught up in someone else's history. I didn't even know it was happening until assassins were sent after me."

"Are you in danger?" he seriously asked.

"No, not right now. One of my friends...he helped me get rid of them."

"But you are troubled," Kodlak concluded. "This way," he motioned, leading her to the yard. "I think perhaps we should have a moment before the others tackle you. They'll talk your ear off with what they've been doing and questions. Here. This is a good spot."

He chose a bench on the building's stone terrace, and she joined him. They were facing the southeastern mountains of all things, beyond which sat the Rift, where she would soon return. She stared at the distant peaks, rimmed in clouds and forever capped with snow, and felt pulled toward them as she never had before. She loved Whiterun, but it didn't feel quite the same anymore.

"So," Kodlak prodded. "Tell me what troubles you. You are not running, are you?"

"No," she firmly stated. "I'm not running, but sometimes in dreams, I still do." He sat in silence, granting her all the time in the world to choose her next words. "I care for someone very deeply," she finally spoke. "I didn't realize how deeply until the last few weeks, but he...he is not a man who has use for such care, I think. After losing so many people, I thought it would be alright. I was going to wait and see what happened. Maybe nothing," she admitted. "But for a moment, I thought that I'd lost him, and it hurt, Kodlak. It hurt like it used to in Daggerfall. Then Tilma died, and I cried. I don't know if I should care for this man, Kodlak. I feel something dark coming, and I do not know what it is. It's like a thundercloud waits in the distance, and I can see it coming, but I can't move fast enough to escape it."

"Tell me of your dreams," he urged. "They often carry great portent."

"I don't know about that," she sighed with a smile.

"I dreamed of your coming."

"Really?" She stared at him in wonder. "You knew I was coming?"

"Why do you think I let you join so readily? I knew your spirit before I met you. Even now, I hear your wolf, and it is a fierce, protective spirit, not one that seeks to kill for its own pleasure. Dreams, Prim, are sometimes windows to the future or what might be the future. I do not think they tell us what must happen, but what could."

"These ones involve a daedra," she frowned. "She's come to my dreams several times with the promise of...gifts, I guess. I turn her away each time, but she doesn't believe that I am serious. One time, I thought about accepting. I almost did, but then the darkness consumed me."

"A different kind of dream,' Kodlak mused. "One forced upon you, not of your own making." He scratched his beard in thought. "Perhaps she is right. Perhaps not. You will need to decide whether or not her offer will change you for the worse."

"She's a daedra," Prim frowned. "Like Hircine. Of course it would be for the worst."

"Do you feel worse for your beast?" he questioned. "I am ready to be free of mine, but I have not regretted living so many years with it. If I cannot be freed, then I will make my peace with fate. I have not turned in many years because I do not need to. I am no longer of an age where I yearn for battle and to prove myself. When you're this old, you have nothing to prove anymore. No, Prim, my battles are behind me, and I made the best of what you know I consider a curse. Sometimes it was a blessing. I have found that one and only one thing makes a difference now: my perspective. I made my beast secondary in life—an interesting fact about myself and little more. Therefore it did not and does not define me."

"What are you saying?" Prim quietly asked.

"That if you had decided to accept this daedra's offer, the end result would largely be of your own making. You could let the gift determine how you live, or use the gift in the life you've determined."

"But our souls..."

"Are bound to one plane or another when we die. They must go somewhere, hopefully the place of our choosing. Aela will thrive on Hircine's planes and join others of like mind. If I am to be there as well, I will meet my forebearers and find a quiet place to rest my bones. Prim, I have heard of souls bound so tightly together that they end up in the same plane together, whether or not one or another was claimed elsewhere. I would see my wife again. That is what I wish for most, and because I wish it so ardently, I think the divines will reunite us."

"But you don't know."

"No, I do not. Do any of us really know until we die?"

"I suppose not," she mused. "...But I do not intend to accept this daedra's offers."

"Then so be it," he smiled. "As for this man you speak of, I would not let the threat of loss or pain keep you away. The world is a hard place to face alone."

"He doesn't seem to have a problem with that," she wryly spoke.

"A hard man, is he?" Kodlak marveled, eyes shining. "Vilkas said you needed someone older and sterner to keep you alive."

"Oh, I'm going to get him for that one," she chuckled. "This one is quite determined to throw me into the fire, not save me from it, I think."

"Now, now," he laughingly cautioned. "Would you be happy with a man who wanted you home safe by the fire, a baby on each knee perhaps?"

Prim momentarily imagined Mercer holding a baby, and burst out laughing. Such an absurd notion. The man would not know how to hold a baby, and just wait until one spit up on his armor, tugged his hair, or laughed at his scowling face.

"Sorry," she guffawed, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "I just...oh, that's funny. No, I think I'd scream if I was locked in a house with children and told to never wander again."

"I'm glad that I've helped put your worries to rest then," Kodlak chuckled. "Come. I think it's time to eat, and Farkas will insist on a game or two."

"I have a friend waiting for me, so I won't stay late," she advised. "But we'll be here several days, so I'll be back tomorrow."

"This is the friend you spoke of?" Kodlak questioned, opening the doors to Jorrvaskr.

"No, not him, and I'm not sure the one who came with me would appreciate keeping company with warriors like us. Maybe though," she mused, thinking a definite 'no' in her mind, but she'd wait and hear Brynjolf's opinion.

She had little time to think once the companions swept her into a chair in the great hall. Long tables lined a central fire pit, and there was food of all kinds to be had. Vilkas and Farkas sat either side of her, and demanded to know exactly what adventures she'd been up. Edited versions that had nothing to do with thieving made the rounds, and then came their news and fond stories of Tilma. They toasted the woman numerous times, and Athis and Njada began sparring while Aela swore up and down that Prim smelled of swamp and men. This drew only laughter, and finally, after too much meat and sweets, Prim excused herself with promises to return in the morning.

It was a horrible walk to Breezehome in the city's lower district, ice on the steps and her overfilled stomach making poor companions. She unlocked and stepped inside to find Brynjolf lounging by the fire. Her home was nothing grand, but the compact size also meant that the fire heated most of the place, the stone pit releasing heat upward to the bedrooms. Unlike Riften, almost everything was made of wood, and not a seat in the house was without a thick cushion. Brynjolf had certainly helped himself to her favorite chair, his armor gone and mead in hand.

"I brought you sweet rolls," she said, handing three to him. "I know there isn't much to eat around here. I haven't been home in awhile."

"It's cozy, lass," he chirped. "I don't think I've ever seen so many chests stuffed with quilts and pillows before in my life. A thief wouldn't know what to do if he broke in here."

"Oh," she grinned. "That's an indulgence of sorts. My first winter here, I stacked my bed with enough blankets and pillows for five people. So you like it? I'm sorry about leaving you here."

"Don't worry about me. It wouldn't be my place to show up at a funeral like that, so I took a stroll. Saw the sights and stopped in the Bannered Mare. The Temple of Kynerath seems an easy target. I'll take our goods the night before we leave."

"Divines, I'm tired," she sighed, flopping into the chair beside him.

His armor was off, leaving him in a tunic and pants, much like herself. She tossed her cloak over the dining table, and pulled off her boots to wiggle her toes near the flames. It would be a quiet evening she suspected, with the two of them sleeping easily after a two day ride from Riften. Brynjolf offered her a mug of mead, and she grinned.

"Helped yourself to the cask in the pantry, huh?"

"You said to make myself at home," he teased. "So how was the funeral?"

"Good."

"And seeing your friends?"

"Also good. They'd like to meet you," she considered. "There's no reason you need to stay here tomorrow, if you don't want to. I'm thinking four days. We'll stay in town four days and then go home to Riften."

"You consider Riften home?" he asked, looking pleased.

"Sort of, yes," she smiled.

"Well, that does my heart good to hear. I'd be delighted to meet your friends, if it won't cause any problems. I'm not a well-reputed man, lass. I wouldn't do you dishonor intentional or otherwise."

"Oh, I'm not worried," she dismissed. "Maybe a little, if something were to happen. You wouldn't take anything from them, would you?" He looked offended, and she chuckled. "Sorry. I had to ask. Well, if your sticky fingers won't be a problem, I'd be happy to introduce you. I'm not ashamed to be your friend, Brynjolf. I'll tell the jarl himself that we drink together if the topic comes up."

He looked at her with a warmth that carried a tinge of surprise as well. She had to remind herself that the guild was his entire existence. He'd been raised and kept within that circle, forever known as the man selling magic in the market, and before that, probably a street urchin rather than an upstanding citizen. He'd been one thing his entire life, and that was someone who would never rub elbows with the Companions.

"That's kind of you, lass," he said. "I would not ask you for that."

"You don't need to. We should enjoy ourselves anyway, right? Mercer isn't happy we're here, so I'll probably be given something annoying to do when we get back." She smiled vaguely, irritated by the thought, but also wondering what the guildmaster was up to at the moment. He was probably at his desk or in Riftweald, where divines knew what he spent his time doing. There'd been books in his bedroom, and a chest of gold coins, but little else to keep one occupied.

"Lass?" Brynjolf questioned.

"Hmm?" She looked at him, a soft but reserved smile on his face.

"You care about him, don't you? Mercer." She must have looked cornered, for he leaned back and held his hands up in a sign of peace. "If you don't want to say anything, you don't need to. I've just noticed the way you talk about him sometimes, and you said that being snowed in at Braidwood wasn't bad at all. You should see the little smile you were wearing just now."

"It's not wrong to care about him," she said. "You care about him too, don't you?"

"Just what are you implying there?"

"Oh, nothing like that," she beamed, grinning at his distasteful expression. "I meant that if something happened to him, you would care."

"Of course I would," the man shrugged. "We've never been as close as I'd liked. I was on my last leg when he brought me to Gallus. It's work between us now, but...I know what you mean," he sighed. "I don't want to see Karliah nearly kill him again, Prim. I'm counting on you to watch his back while I watch the guild's."

She stared into the flames, debating whether or not to say more. Perhaps it was time to share something deeper about her feelings with Brynjolf, and there was no threat of eavesdropping here, unlike in the cistern. It was safe to say anything within the walls of Breezehome.

"I do care about him, Bryn," she stated. "There was a moment on the tundra above Windhelm where I thought he'd died. I...I couldn't handle it." She stared into her mead, eventually looking up to find Brynjolf wearing a studious expression. "That's when I realized how much...I'm terrible at this," she frowned. "I care about him. Let's leave it at that."

"I'd ask how much," Brynjolf lowly spoke. "But alright. Let's leave it." He stirred the fire's embers with a pick, his almost concerned features melting into calmness. "You could have told me sooner. I wouldn't have said a word. It can be our secret, if you'd like."

"I wouldn't say it's a secret," she mused. "I guess it is. I haven't said anything."

"I'll keep it to myself unless you say otherwise. Mercer is a smart man, Prim. If I've picked up on it, he already knows, or maybe it's too far from his concerns to be noticed. Just be careful."

_Always looking out for me_, she thought. It occurred to her that everything would be so much easier if she'd gravitated toward Brynjolf. He was handsome and quick, both in manner and tongue, and maybe, if she'd just been thinking more and charging into challenges less, he would have won her favor. Watching him tend the flames, she decided it would have been easy to fall for him if Mercer hadn't so mightily demanded her attention, the guildmaster's demeanor making her determined to best him or gain his respect one way or another. _And all the times I intentionally defied him, just to do it_, she thought.

"I don't think that I can stay awake much longer," she yawned. "I'm being terrible company. I just got back, and I'm ready for bed."

"I'm ready to sleep myself."

"The spare bed's yours, and you can have all the blankets and pillows you'd like."

They rose together, ambling up the stairs. She still felt overly full, and grumbled as she flung her bedroom doors open. The heat from the fire below seeped up through the cracked floorboards, warming her feet as she crawled beneath blankets. This was so much more comfortable than the cistern. Maybe she would save her coins and take extra work to get herself a proper house in Riften.

"How in Tamriel did you fit this many pillows in one chest?" Brynjolf called.

"Very carefully."

She rolled over and fell asleep with a smile.


	3. Chapter 3

Prim parried and weaved around Vilkas, their swords striking and filling the training yard with metallic clangs. It was chill, but not so chill that Brynjolf required a layer beyond the outer robe of his merchant's garb as he sat and watched. The dark-haired man, Vilkas, wasn't being easy on Prim, but the lass was holding her own, stubbornly so, and not without brilliance. He had never seen her in full form with a sword before, and now realized just how formidable an opponent she made. Her light steps were those of a thief, but her steel that of a warrior. If she could get close, Karliah would be hard pressed to outrun or kill the woman.

_Prim won't die_, he vehemently thought. Mercer and Prim were talented fighters, and between the two, Karliah had little chance of winning. _Unless she picks them off from a distance_. But he owed his guildmaster and fellow thief more credit than that, and Prim would undoubtedly take watching Mercer's back seriously.

Brynjolf thought back to their conversation the night before, and wondered whether anything might have blossomed between himself and the lass. He'd thought of her in a romantic sense from time to time, and had flirted when it suited him, so why had nothing happened? He would have loved her. That much he knew, but her eyes had burned with focus on Mercer, purely in defiance at first, before she'd come to grips with the man's abrasiveness.

_I lost my chance_, Brynjolf realized. He'd continued old games while completely dismissing the possibility of Mercer doing more than tolerating Prim. If he'd known about the drawer and Mercer's research project, he wouldn't have been so lax. If he'd suspected just how deeply Prim was gravitating toward the man, he would have done more to spare her possible rejection. Now though, thinking about the guildmaster, perhaps this was for the best. Perhaps Prim could worm her way close enough to find the Mercer who'd sometimes risked his own safety for a nothing of a street kid.

"Have we started taking on soft townsmen now?" a female voice asked.

Brynjolf turned his head to eye the approaching woman. She wore leather pants and boots, a thick jacket trimmed in fur overlaying chain armor that gleamed in the morning light. His eyes danced across her sharp features and reddish hair, lingering on green eyes much like his own. She looked him up and down just as boldly while scrubbing a nail across her cheek to remove the last remnants of what looked like war paint.

"The name's Aela," she stated. "Either you're lost or you're Prim's friend."

"I'm not the type of person to get lost, lass," he smiled.

"Lass?" she questioned, eyes narrowing. There was a predatory element to the woman as she strode closer. "Just who do you think you're calling lass?"

"A beautiful woman," he easily replied, working the best of his charm. "As beautiful as she is deadly, I'm assuming. You're a companion?"

"Nothing less," she said, turning her attention to the yard. "And you are...?"

"Brynjolf."

"You came from Riften with Prim, did you not?"

"Aye. I've lived there my whole life. Have you visited?"

"No. The smell was enough to keep me away."

"It grows on you," he promised.

This woman had not been present yesterday or the day before, when he'd first come to Jorrvaskr with Prim. Perhaps she'd been out on a job, braving the wilderness of Skyrim with the sword so easily resting on her hip, or the bow across her back perhaps. It was a different sort that gathered on these grounds to pledge oaths and look for the next available fight. He was not entirely out of his depth, but cut from cloth ill-suited to this lifestyle. These were warriors, and proud ones at that.

"Have you been comfortable in our hall, townsman?" Aela asked, peering at him.

"Warm, well-fed, and very entertained," he beamed.

He shifted just enough that she could see the pommel and grip of the sword strapped to his waist. She eyed it and then him before her lips pulled into a smile.

"Why don't you show me how a man from Riften fights?"

"I'm not a warrior, lass, but maybe one day," he winked. "You wouldn't want to meet me in a game of my choosing."

She snorted very ungracefully, yet moved with unbelievable grace to embrace Prim as the other woman finished sparring with Vilkas. Prim's cheeks were flushed from exertion, but a smile was stamped on her face.

"You were hunting?" she guessed.

"There's no finer way to spend a morning," Aela returned. "I was hoping you'd join me before you depart."

Prim shook her head, the women briefly meeting eyes before Aela nodded. Brynjolf pondered the exchange, but then Vilkas was dropping onto the bench beside him, sweating and the war paint around his eyes running. Prim and Aela followed suit, the four soon sitting in a circle and chatting about recent jobs. It was a conversation to which he could contribute little, although that unpleasant incident with a sabercat outside Riften suddenly proved handy. He could speak of playing a game with it in the forest, although at the time, he'd been very concerned about ending up as the thing's dinner. They didn't need to know that he'd been returning from a theft when he'd accidentally stumbled upon the animal. Prim's smile said that she already knew this story, or maybe the one about him fighting bandits on the pass toward Mist Veil Keep to meet one of Maven's underlings.

"I told you he's not just a soft hunk of meat," Prim crowed, nudging Aela with a grin.

"He doesn't look like he could fight a sabercat," the woman shrugged.

"Don't I now?" he challenged. "A strapping Nord like myself? Looks can be deceiving, lass."

He couldn't help but smile when Aela's gaze drifted over him ever so subtly, quickly darting to Prim as the woman prodded her about her recent hunt.

"I was down near Riverwood," she spoke. "I took the mountain pass directly south of it, aiming for a hagraven cave, but I must have taken the wrong trail. It wound deep into the stone, and ended against the mountain. Strange place. There was a stone wall as tall as a tree set right into the side of the cliffs. I climbed the boulders around it for a better look—was pretty sure there was nothing left of interest to find down there, but it was worth a look, if you know what I mean. I've never seen something so strange in my life. Right in the middle of the night, there was a woman up there on the tower, lighting candles around a statue of a woman with her arms stretched out and birds of some kind on them."

Nocturnal? Brynjolf said nothing, but caught Prim momentarily freeze. The daedra made the woman uneasy, and understandably so after the nightmares she'd experienced. He did not have such a gut reaction himself, the image of the daedra a familiar one from the shrine that had once stood in the cistern. He'd never paid much attention to it himself, only on nights when he'd helped Karliah with some celebration or other. Mercer had always insisted it was a waste, of course, and that his time would be better spent training.

"She saw me," Aela continued. "Asked me if I was a child of shadow. I don't know what she was talking about, but we spoke for a few moments. She's a watcher of some kind, and came up from Cyrodiil to meditate and think. Oblivion if I know what she was going on about. I didn't stay long enough to be ambushed or have some sort of curse called on me."

"Do you remember exactly where this place was?" Prim asked.

"I never forget once I've been somewhere."

"So you could mark it on a map?"

"You're thinking of going out there?" Aela questioned. "What for?"

"It sounds interesting, don't you think, Brynjolf?" There was no telling what she was thinking about behind that placid expression, but he nodded in agreement. "Brynjolf here is an explorer of sorts. It sounds like a shrine to Nocturnal, and I've never seen one."

"Suit yourselves," Aela accepted. "I'll mark it for you. Vilkas, are you asleep?"

The man opened his eyes and stood, stretching.

"I had a big breakfast."

"Right before fighting," Prim teased as he walked away. "He could sleep through a thunderstorm, that one." She called out with further jests as Aela went to retrieve a map, leaving Prim and Brynjolf to themselves. He leaned forward with interest.

"Just what are you thinking, lass? I would think a shrine is the last place you'd like to go."

"It is," she frowned. "But maybe this watcher can tell us something useful. Nocturnal is tangled up in this, Brynjolf. I'm sure of it. She was involved with the guild, Gallus, Karliah, and Mercer, and now we're stuck in the middle of it. If Mercer won't tell us more, I say we do a little poking around ourselves."

There was a fervent spark in her eyes. Dissuading her would be a gargantuan task, and he had little reason to bother with it. Perhaps she was right, and there was more to this than there seemed. There usually was in life. Karliah had shown the guild's shrine respect, telling him to honor the dark lady, and that the daedra's shadows would guide him. Prim had seen shadows—had lashed out at them. He contemplated the matter while she insistently continued.

"You must be curious. Mercer has told me a little, but not much."

"He wanted nothing to do with Nocturnal."

"But I don't think it was always that way. It couldn't have been, or he wouldn't have risked dealing with her."

Prim knew more, but held her tongue, almost shy in her downturned gaze. She was undoubtedly thinking about Mercer again and whatever the man had told her. Told her or confided in her? The guildmaster had better appreciate her favor, for divines knew she'd apparently been doing some prying of her own.

"I'm game for a little snooping," Brynjolf decided. "We'll go, lass, and see what this watcher has to say. We'd best be careful and quick though. For all we know, she's some sort of crazy hermit. I've met one or two of those in life, down in the Ratway Warrens, and trust me, you don't want them in biting distance."

"Tomorrow then," Prim affirmed.

Maybe there would be answers one day, he decided. All these years later, maybe a flash of truth would shine through the murk that he'd learned to forget. Prim's grim but pleased expression promised as much, although how much easier this would be if Mercer were willing to share more. The man had either made a mistake or unknowingly released a burden from himself in dangling meat in front of this woman. Show thieves a single coin, and watch them hunt for more.

* * *

The land south of Riverwood was pleasant and shielded by mountains. Snow crusted the river along which the main road wound, pines peppering the rocky landscape, and chickadees flitting between branches as Prim stared into the forest. The road would grow steeper as it broke from the river, and this was unfamiliar territory to both her and Brynjolf. The red-haired thief stood beside her in his guild armor, a traveling pack strapped across his back. He unfolded their map and they studied it a moment before continuing. Aela had said that the river should eventually be at their back, and to take the first trail on their left.

"Did you hear that?" Prim questioned, pausing.

"Hear what?"

She stopped and turned her face to the wind, having sworn a woman's voice had carried across it. With a frown, she shook her head and pressed onward.

"Nothing, I guess."

"I've heard of Forsworn being spotted this far east of Markath," Brynjolf spoke, voice lowered. "We'd better keep our eyes sharp." He muttered a low curse as a tree shook snow on him, a great lump of white coating his shoulders. "I'm not made for the wilderness," he stated. "I never so much as stepped foot in it until Gallus trusted me with jobs outside Riften."

"I was the same way before I left Daggerfall," she shared. "But you'd better not let Aela hear you talking badly about the wilds," she slyly added. "You might lose the ground you've gained."

"Most women find city men charming," he countered. "And I'll have you know that I've spent many a night traveling Skyrim. Guild jobs have taken me everywhere."

"Hmm," Prim mused with a smile. The redhead drew even with her as she peered down an opening into the mountain, and then moved to block her view. "What?" she grinned.

"You look like a cat with a ball of yarn."

"Must be the same look you had when Aela changed into her evening robes. You know. The ones that dipped low like this." She traced the design on her chest, the huntress's robes having dipped between her breasts and showing more skin than most ladies in town would dare. If only Brynjolf knew what the woman lounged around in during summer.

"Oye, lass," he chuckled. "How could I not have noticed?"

"She likes you," Prim simply stated as she veered from the road and down the narrow way between boulders and trees. Some of the towering pines had grown from cracks within the rocks, their roots bulging between crevices and even splitting stone. The sunlight overhead was blocked, leaving the way shadowed and cold. "This must be it,' she said.

"Not much of a path," Brynjolf whispered.

They kept close together as the rock walls funneled to a point, converging and leaving but a crack through which a person might pass. It smelled of rabbits, their prints decorating the snow beneath Prim's boots. She turned sideways and slide through the crevice, able to see sunlight beyond. Within moments, she emerged into its embrace, stepping into a hollow space hewed from the surrounding rock. There was no way out of this place but for the crevice through which she'd passed, and there, at the far end of the small clearing, was the tower Aela had described. It was pressed into the mountain, three stories perhaps, and broken blocks were scattered about the base.

Prim moved closer and studied the surrounding boulders and debris. They'd apparently fallen from the mountain and damaged one side of the tower, although the resulting hole had been filled with rubble and rock, leaving no hope of entering. She instead scampered over the boulders and made her way to the tower's wall. The stones were old and ill-fitted, uneven in surface, and would provide enough grip for her nimble fingers. This was climber's wall.

"That's a dangerous climb," Brynjolf released, appearing beside her.

He was larger and heavier than her, and frowned at the tower.

"It doesn't seem like anyone's here," Prim said. "But we might as well take a look." She dropped her traveling pack, and tested various stones for a sure hold. "What do you think?" she questioned. "Are you a climber?"

"I can manage. I used to climb like this when I first started."

"I'm just going to take a quick look to see if anyone's here. You can wait, if you'd like."

A broken leg would be a major problem, and she'd rather the man not risk it if he wasn't experienced at scaling walls. Every thief had their specialty, and this just happened to be hers. She wasted no time in lifting herself and climbing, fingers straining against narrow holds. It wasn't a great distance to climb given how high the boulders were stacked against the wall, and she soon reached the top. She hoisted herself over the edge, and looked down to see Brynjolf staring up at her.

"Anything interesting?" he asked.

She turned and stared at the statue of Nocturnal that rose from the tower. The daedra's image was every bit as graceful and threatening as she remembered, this one life-size, although it looked out of place. Its base was roughly wedged between heavy rocks, a corner broken free. It had been transported from elsewhere, Prim concluded, and apparently visited on a regular basis. The unlit candles about the daedra's legs smelled of smoke, and a woman's scent lingered in the air.

"Prim?" Brynjolf called.

"I'm looking around. There's just a statue."

She wandered to the base, and lifted a ruby for examination. Almost immediately, a shadow moved, and her hand reflexively freed a dagger, holding it ready as she glared into the dark recesses of a crevice to the statue's left. The narrow opening had been easy to miss, and someone was there, the edges of a blue robe slowly detaching from the darkness.

"Do you come to steal or give?"

Prim relaxed at the very human voice and form. This was not a shadow, but a real person—a woman draped in robes just as Aela had described, black hair braided away from a dark face. There was neither menace nor welcome as the two regarded one another.

"Not to steal," Prim stated. "But not to give."

She set the ruby down, and sheathed her dagger.

"I see," the watcher considered. "Then why have you come?"

"Curiosity. I am Prim, and my companion down there is Bryn. We are passing through on our way to Riften."

"Riften?" the woman questioned, voice lifting with interest. "A den of thieves, they say. Those days are done for me, but perhaps not for you." The woman walked closer with a brief bow of her head. "Pardon me," she implored. "You may call me Naya, the watcher. I attend the shrine here, long forgotten by everyone else, or so I thought. You are free to stay and rest as long as you'd like."

"Thank you," Prim spoke, keeping a careful distance as the woman walked to the statue's base. There was a delicate air to the Redguard, but not true weakness, not if the woman was surviving out here alone. Prim's gaze rose to Nocturnal's face, and a shudder passed through her. Did the daedra keep watch over this shrine, or were mortals so meager as to go largely unnoticed? Prim would have assumed herself beneath the daedra's attention if not for the dreams she'd suffered.

"I came for answers actually," she admitted.

"Answers?" Naya echoed, peering at her. "And what answers would you hope to find at the shrine of our dark lady? Do you honor her?"

"No, but I came anyway. I thought there might something here to understand."

Naya regarded her with dark eyes, a slight smile touching thin lips after a long moment's consideration. The Redguard was directly in front of Prim in an instant, one hand raising as if to touch her face, but merely hovering close to her skin. Prim wanted to step away, but held herself steady.

"My lady has been so silent lately," Naya whispered. "But sometimes I feel her shadows pass over me and offer words. She says to ask your questions of me, Prim Bleaksnow." The hand dropped. "What would you like to know?"

"Why Nocturnal asks for the souls of thieves."

"Oh, but that one is simple," Naya laughed. "Because she has what thieves want. Thieves come to our lady, not the other way around, although sometimes a mortal does catch her attention. You are a thief, so perhaps you know that she has a pact with the guild in Cyrodiil. That is where I dwelled as a young thief, before sickness marred my fingers. I knew of her pact and entered it. She brings us luck and powers of shadow, and in return, we give ourselves to her. There is no greater honor for a thief than to enter the shadows upon death."

"But bound to her service," Prim qualified.

"Of course. That is the nature of the deal. Nothing is free."

Had Mercer made a similar pact with Nocturnal? Prim turned the idea over and over, frowning as she wondered why the man clearly disliked the daedra to whom he'd surrendered himself. Naya stared at her all the more pointedly, tilting her head with a vague smile as though someone whispered in her ear. Perhaps coming here was not the wisest of decisions after all.

"You know far more than you think you do," Naya stated. "You are shadow-blessed."

"What?"

"I mean that you have touched the realm of our lady. The shadows recognize you. So few of them walk the land anymore, but why, I do not know. The gateway between worlds has been closed, leaving but a crack for them to use. Perhaps you would be wiser to ask your questions of the shadows."

"I'm not here to invite trouble into my life," Prim quickly answered.

"Oh, but it might be worth your answers. Do you fear Nocturnal's eye? There is no reason for that. She has already seen you, and your service would satisfy her, but it is not required. Nothing is taken unwilling, but once signed, nothing can be taken back either."

This woman was as bad as Nocturnal herself with such cryptic messages, although with the touch of Hircine upon her, Prim understood all too well what was implied. It was difficult to imagine Mercer bowing to a daedra, but not so difficult to imagine him making what he considered a shrewd deal. She jerked away when Naya reached for her face again, one outstretched finger grazing her nose. Why were daedra worshippers always so sodding strange?

"I could open your eyes to the shadows," the watcher offered. "You have touched the darkness, and you walk through it. Seeing through them would give you answers I cannot."

"I don't know what you mean," Prim warded.

Behind her, arms grasped over the edge of the wall, and the top of a head appeared. Brynjolf was grimly frowning as he dragged himself over the ledge to kneel on the stones. His eyes darted between the two women, and Naya began mumbling in a language unknown to Prim.

"This isn't as easy as when I was a lad," Brynjolf muttered.

"Bryn, this is..."

Prim swayed as the world teetered. For a moment, she thought that an earthquake was rocking the ground, but no, only she was affected. The chanting. She had to stop that blasted watcher from chanting, and reached for the woman, but it was too late. Shadows dodged her gaze, flitting about her and closing hands over her eyes. There was a voice, but she could not discern its nature. Brynjolf was yelling something through it, and perhaps his arms were the ones to catch her. There was no way to tell as she tumbled into the darkness.

…

…

…

_Where am I?_

Prim sat up on a grassy swath of ground, feeling strangely light. She felt the ground beneath her, but not its temperature—could see a breeze sweeping in from Lake Honrich, but not feel it. Sensation was present but dulled, and the lack of smell unnerved her more than anything. She stood and looked across a Rift fully green in spring or perhaps summer, sunlight fading on the horizon.

_Am I dreaming?_

"Did you sleep in a barn?" a female voice laughed.

Prim spun and gasped. A very familiar man stood at the road's edge, arms crossed as a dark elf picked a piece of straw from his hair. The woman was lithe and pretty, her features petite and a laugh as smooth as a songbird's. Prim barely noticed her though, remaining rooted in shock as she stared at a Mercer Frey whose face was unmarred by frown lines. He was young, his brown hair almost blond in coloring rather than gray, and his features unworn by time. He looked less stern than she knew him to be, although a touch of disagreement remained as he stepped away from his companion.

_He's missing scars_, she thought.

"Mercer," the dark elf sighed. "Hold still."

Surprisingly, he did, and the woman moved behind him, her hands entering his hair. Prim strode closer, unseen and apparently unable to interact with them. She could only watch, stomach turning in discomfort, as this other woman attempted to tame the wild mass that Mercer's hair currently was. His eyes were just as deep and watchful. That, at least, was the same. Prim could not look away—was frozen in place by the strange scene and how his eyelids drooped as hands flattened his hair.

"What are you doing, Karliah?" he asked, swallowing.

"Making sure you look presentable. This is a goddess we're talking about. My old guildmaster made us wash and polish our armor before entering her presence."

The elf continued to rake fingers through his hair, and each stroke made Prim squirm. Karliah. So this was the Karliah that Mercer wanted to kill so badly.

"I knew you and Gallus were worthy the moment I met you," the woman preened. "The guild in Cyrodiil thinks you're all too young and inexperienced, and that you might not even last the next few years. They scoffed at Gallus being a guildmaster at his age. But they're in for a real surprise, aren't they? They don't realize that I know the sepulcher's location or that Nocturnal made a new pact with me when I found it. There have never been Nightingales outside the Cyrodiil guild before. You and Gallus will be the first."

Karliah moved around to Mercer's front, and straightened the collar of his tunic, which peeked out from beneath leather armor. With a smile, she even licked a finger and smudged dirt from his cheeks.

"I just got back from a job," he dismissed. "This is fucking unnecessary."

"Shut up," she playfully corrected him. "There. Ready?"

"I was ready yesterday."

She grinned, and he smirked without malice. It was almost a real smile, and Prim tried to distance herself from the two, even as her feet remained still. This had to be a dream, or a memory perhaps? Someone else's memory. _A shadow's_, she realized.

"And to think that you were so resistant to this but a few days ago," Karliah spoke.

"Gallus and I talked through it. If she can grant us as much influence and power as you say, we'd like to at least speak with her." But he did not sound entirely convinced, his smile disappearing even though his voice remained light. "We'll roll the dice and see what happens."

"Always willing to run on the knife's edge," she approvingly noted.

"It's the only reason I've survived this long," he spoke, dismissively as if it were nothing. Karliah peered up at him, dusting one last bit of dirt from his armor before finally stepping back. At that moment, another man walked into view, young like Mercer and Karliah, and clearing Imperial with his raven hair and olive skin. That was Prim's first realization, quickly followed by thinking the man incredibly handsome. He held himself easily, almost intentionally lackadaisical as he swept a hand through his hair.

"Gallus," Karliah greeted. "You're ready as well, yes?"

"Born ready."

"You two are so full of yourselves. Let's go."

The woman led the way as Mercer walked even with Gallus.

"She's not nearly as serious as yesterday," he noted.

"She's just excited that we're willing to hear Nocturnal's offer. We can make a final decision once we hear it in person. Stop looking so dour. You agreed to this last night. I saw the way your eyes lit up when she mentioned how much gold we could make with the shadows on our side."

"If the daedra can really offer that. I've heard stories."

"Stories, you say," Gallus laughed. "Look. It's like we discussed; we'll just have to see what happens. Either we step into this together or not at all."

They looked at each other with solidarity, and pushed onward into the night. Prim found she could no longer follow them. She was forced to watch them disappear into the forest, heading west from Riften. The three seemed so jovial together as Karliah called the men slow, but all Prim could see were the woman's fingers running through Mercer's hair, just as hers had so recently done. Her digits curled into her palm, and deep inside, a bell tolled in sorrow.

…

…

…

"Gallus."

Mercer's voice called Prim to consciousness. She opened her eyes and found herself in the cistern, standing in front of the guildmaster's desk, only Mercer was on the wrong side. He stood where she normally did, the desk between him and Gallus. The shelves behind the desk were stocked with artifacts and goods, and enchanted items glimmered in the familiar interior of the place. Prim reached out and swept fingers across Mercer's still youthful face, but felt nothing more than a ripple of taut energy.

"Did you have a successful run?" Gallus asked.

"The gold speaks for itself," Mercer replied, dropping a heavy sack onto the desk.

"Excellent! Did you use that trick again? Making the guards fight each other? I remember the last time you did that, up near Solitude. Damned funny thing to watch."

"No. I didn't need to," Mercer dismissed. "Maybe a good thief doesn't need such tricks."

His voice held something dark, but it went unnoticed by Gallus, who flipped open the ledger and upended the bag, counting coins. How had the man missed the undercurrent in Mercer's words? Prim moved closer, able to see that more lurked in Mercer's eyes than his friend had noticed. For a moment, he even seemed to meet her gaze, but no, he was staring through her.

"You _are_ one of the best," Gallus beamed. "I think you, me, and Karliah are some of the best thieves in all of Tamriel. What do you think?"

"We've learned a lot since starting the guild."

"Sometimes the hard way," Gallus wryly added. "I guess you can't go through life without falling off your share of horses. Karliah was looking for you by the way. Something about visiting the sepulcher. Oh, there she is," he pointed.

The dark elf appeared in the vision's murky edges and walked closer, eyes lingering on Gallus as a smile touched her face. The guildmaster returned the gesture, a private moment in public that Prim easily caught. They certainly weren't hiding their relationship, and just how many years had passed since the last vision? Quite a few, she decided. The cistern would not have changed so much overnight, the place now resembling the hub that Delvin had once described to her. This strange dream of hers was creeping into clarity, blurs becoming people as everything grew more defined. She even caught sight of a young Delvin playing cards with a large Nord.

Prim returned her attention to the three friends, Gallus fully immersed in counting coins. "Gallus said you were looking for me?" Mercer asked, tone flat.

"Yes. Come on," Karliah prodded, tapping his shoulder with a friendly smile. "Let's go for a walk. I'll be back, Gallus."

Mercer's eyes rose to Gallus, thoughtful, although the man wasn't looking at him. He slowly turned and followed Karliah, and Prim kept pace with them. From the cistern, they entered the graveyard and strolled into the heart of the city. Riften was cloaked in a warm night.

"You've been spending a lot of time at the sepulcher lately," Karliah noted.

"I've had a lot to think about."

"Don't you always? One day it won't be content to stay in that skull of yours." The woman smiled and drew him into the mouth of an alley, where she leaned against a wall, face veiled in darkness. "Is everything alright, Mercer?"

"Of course. Why shouldn't it be?"

"You tell me." When he said nothing, she sighed. "You're so difficult. Fine. I'm asking because I saw what you did. You moved the skeleton key."

Skeleton key? Prim had no idea to what the woman referred, but was close enough to see Mercer's stare harden. He remained perfectly still before moving to mimic Karliah's pose in leaning against the wall opposite her.

"I put it back," Mercer stated.

"I know, and that's why I haven't said anything to Gallus, but Mercer, do you realize what could have happened? If Nocturnal decided to punish us, the guild...think of the guild!" The woman's voice was hushed but insistent. "She is our guardian, and we promised to protect the key for her."

"Our guardian?" Mercer tartly questioned. "She holds our souls, and we traded them for a bit of luck. Be honest, Karliah. How long has it been since her gifts were necessary for you to pull off a job? It would have been a better deal to take the fucking key and tell the daedra to keep her enchanted armor."

"Mercer!" Karliah's exclamation was filled with shock and hurt. "You don't mean that. Look at what the guild has become."

"Do you even know what the key can do?" he pressed, unrelenting. "She's dangling it in front of us like a dare. It..." His thought hung unfinished as Karliah moved swiftly to leave. He seized her arm, pulling her back into the alleyway. "Stop," he ordered, voice gruff before drifting into a wisp of regret. "I'm sorry." She said nothing. "Karliah, I'm sorry."

"Promise me you'll never touch the key again, Mercer."

"Karliah..."

"Mercer, I need to hear you say it. Gallus doesn't know, and I won't say anything if you never touch it again. The three of us pledged ourselves to her! Belonging to the shadows is a blessing for a thief. What more could we want than to end as that which protects us?"

"I do not object to joining the shadows," he lowly spoke.

"Then what?"

"...We're playthings."

"I don't understand."

_I do_, Prim thought. Hircine loved setting a challenging hunt for his followers—reveled in having the strongest join his ranks and the weakest succumb to the beast, fate twisting and making them both hunter and prey by turn. He gifted them with power, and in turn staked his claim. Prim's throat tightened with emotion as she stumbled back to avoid Mercer walking through her ghostly form.

"I will not take the key, Karliah," Mercer said.

"Thank you," she whispered, her thanks so genuine that it made Prim's stomach twist. What had happened to this group of friends? "I am sure Nocturnal has forgiven your curiosity. We are thieves, after all. Come," she suggested, although she kept her distance from him. "Shall we go back to the guild?"

"You can. I'm sure Gallus is waiting for you."

"Alright. Shadows hide you."

Karliah departed, leaving Prim facing a stoic Mercer. The man stared hard into the night sky, alone in the middle of the street. She was already fading from the vision, Riften descending into a fog that filled her eyes and throat. Somewhere in the murk, Mercer's voice reached her, a curse and the breaking of something wooden making dread pool in her stomach.

_"Fuck them both."_

_ …._

_ …_

_ …_

"Prim! Wake up, lass!"

"She is fine. The shadows opened their paths to her, and she travels them to her desired destination."

"You're talking a bunch of nonsense, watcher. Don't touch her."

Prim opened her eyes to sunlight and Brynjolf's green, green eyes. He was leaning over her, and gave her cheek a gentle slap, jarring her into alertness. This was real, she realized. The stone beneath her and her fellow thief was real, not some imagined reality. She sighed with relief and sat up, head a jumble of thoughts too numerous to digest. Brynjolf steadied her by fastening onto an elbow, but he could not possibly fathom the reason for her silence.

How had Gallus and Karliah not seen what had eaten away at Mercer? And divines, but what had Mercer done? How had Gallus ended up murdered, Karliah on the run, and Mercer near death? She felt sick, although it was probably just an effect of being sucked so violently into another plane of consciousness. Damned shadows.

"Are you alright?" Brynjolf pressed. "Prim?"

"I'm here," she blurted. "What _was_ that?"

"The shadows allowed you to walk their path," Naya supplied. "Did you find your answers?"

"I'm not sure." She stood and frowned at nothing in particular. "It was the past."

"I do not know," the woman answered. "I did not see. Only you did."

"The past," Prim repeated, almost to herself, even as she looked to Brynjolf. "I saw Karliah taking Mercer and Gallus to Nocturnal. And something...they were arguing about something." She couldn't decide what, but knew it involved Nocturnal. A glance at the daedra's statue revealed nothing, just as expected, although Prim wondered if the being was aware of what she'd witnessed. "I think we should go," she said.

"I couldn't agree more," Brynjolf said. "Home to Riften."

_Home to Riften_. Mercer would have expected their return days ago.

* * *

Mercer dipped his knife into a bucket of water, and swirled it until the last of the blood was gone. Sven Straight-Bow would not be relaying any further information to the guild's enemies or allies, including Maven. Oh, Black-Briar thought she was clever, using the man to keep her informed of all things guild-related, but when her playing piece had decided to make extra coin by selling information to other bidders, the woman had come to her favorite guildmaster and spoken as though she'd been wronged. As if he didn't know that the mess began with her! She'd whetted Sven's appetite for wealth in the first place, and a gambling addiction hadn't helped keep the man loyal.

Luckily for Maven, Mercer had already known about her tool informing on the guild, although not to Karliah. He was always one step ahead of Riften's unofficial queen. She just didn't know it.

He turned Sven's corpse over with his boot, and studied the man's loose expression. The elder could have easily lived out his days in peace if he'd known when to be content. Of course, when had Mercer ever limited himself for the sake of contentment? He scoffed and left the body to be discovered by guards when the smell reached other tenants. No one saw him glide from the building and over the walkway of the canal, then upward to the city's dry side and Riftweald.

The manor was silent as he entered, the master bedroom a world of gray in the moonlight. He lit a candle, and tossed boots onto the floor. A pile of dust along the underside of the bed caught his eye, and for a moment, his face pinched in annoyance as he considered hiring a maid. No one was ever here except him though, so if the dust didn't bother him, a maid was pointless. He wouldn't trust some cleaner in his home anyway. There was little decoration or gold in the open, but that didn't mean he was without expensive taste. There was always a stock of imported wines and the finest potions, and his bed was covered in finely embroidered blankets of a quality never seen in Riften's markets. He didn't need any of these things, but with the amount of gold he'd acquired, he wasn't against ordering what he fancied.

He changed into loose clothing and reclined on the bed, candlelight catching a gem on the nightstand. It was forest green and wrapped in golden wire that braided together to form a bracelet. On a gold plate fastened behind the gem, almost illegible, was a Nordic insignia that had once represented a prominent family in Riften.

_The Bleaksnows_, he mused, lifting the piece of jewelry and idly studying it as he had for the past four nights. This was all that remained of the vanished family's wealth. He'd sold everything else, cleaning out the jarl's hold much to the court's dismay and the guild's delight, but this he'd kept. Oh, he'd intended to pawn it off like everything else, but Karliah had loved this shade of green. Offering it to her had been an attempt to ease the discord between them, but Gallus had grown suspicious in his own right by then, and had undoubtedly been speaking with her. Those two had shared _everything_.

Mercer tossed the bracelet aside with contempt. It'd lain beneath a stack of parchment in the basement, forgotten until the last of the Bleaksnow's line had wandered into Riften. Prim and Brynjolf should have returned several days ago, which meant that either the job in Whiterun had gone wrong—unlikely—or that they were taking their time. With winter lifting, it irked him all the more. What was that infernal woman thinking, planting a kiss on his forehead in farewell? Had she been drinking again? She was only free with her hands when plotting or impaired, although if she thought her unwarranted affection could continue indefinitely without consequences, she was fooling herself.

He snuffed the candle's flame with his fingers, and lounged unmoving in the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

The Ragged Flagon was louder than usual as Prim and Brynjolf entered. Sapphire and Rune stood on chairs, hanging a string of lanterns across the ceiling, while Vekel proudly loaded his oven with unbaked loaves of bread. Most of the guild seemed to have gathered in the tavern, either watching the activities or participating, and there was a buzz of energy in the air. Vipir and Cynric were even winding thin bearberry branches into wreaths while Thrynn sat beside them, decrying the task as too 'womanly.' Prim merely wanted to know what was going on, and quickly jaunted over to join the group.

"Prim! Brynjolf!" Delvin called, raising his tankard in a salute. Of course the man was simply an observer. Vex sat beside him, watching the returning thieves with indifference, and her close proximity to Delvin made Prim smile. Delvin even sent her a wink when the Imperial wasn't looking. "You're back in time," the man grinned.

"In time for what?" Prim asked.

"The first day of spring," Brynjolf chuckled. "You didn't know?"

"I knew it was coming, but we do things differently in Whiterun," she mused, eyeing the extra lanterns overhead.

"It's tomorrow," Vekel stated. "The Ragged Flagon will celebrate just like any other tavern."

Of course the man would plan on decorations and a party, ever insistent that the Flagon was a legitimate establishment. Prim smiled and wondered whether there would be dancing and singing like in Whiterun, where the jarl's wizard usually set off colorful explosions in the sky as entertainment. Such displays were nothing compared to festivities in Daggerfall, but that meant little to her.

"We'll go above ground for the main event," Sapphire chimed in. "But we're all planning to come back here for the night. Vekel has promised dough rings."

"Dough rings?"

"By the nine, Prim," Brynjolf teased. "You've never had dough rings? They're only made for special occasions like festivals. Tonilia is the champion in our eating contest."

"They're round like this," Vipir said, holding up his wreath. "Sugary and fried."

"Sounds delicious," Prim beamed.

It was good to know that the guild had a strong enough sense of community to celebrate annual events, but she had to wonder what Mercer thought of the entire affair. He had treated the little party in Kynesgrove as a nuisance, but then again, none of the other thieves seemed concerned, so she wouldn't be either. Let the man sit in some dark corner, watching them dance and laugh. She hoped that he would at least be present to observe, even if he chose not to participate.

Brynjolf sat beside Delvin, and gave the man a subtle nudge, nodding toward Vex. No sooner did Delvin give a rogue smirk than Vex stood and moved to converse with Tonilia. Delvin watched her backside saunter away.

"No more slaps to the face?" Prim teased.

"The seasons turn eventually. Always do," Delvin stated. "The ice is melting."

"So you've managed to keep your hands to yourself?" Brynjolf goaded.

"It's killing me, but I haven't done anything since you two left, and she's been siting with me. I guess it's a good sign. Damned slow process, this wooing thing. Oh, Bryn," he remembered, his smile slipping. "Mercer will be looking for you. He found a hole that needed plugged—the hard way, that is."

"Hold the news a moment," Prim quickly spoke, taking Brynjolf's traveling pack. "I'm going to drop these by our beds. I'll be right back."

She left the group and wandered toward the cistern's tunnel. It led into silence with everyone gathered in the Flagon, the tunnel's lanterns having gone out without notice, and the cistern's soft sunlight drawing her onward. She was at the mouth of the tunnel when she spied Mercer approaching across the central walkway. She paused, regarding him and waiting to be reprimanded for her extended absence, particularly given the approach of spring. The land was still cold, and green growth had yet to appear, but nor was there snow in the Rift. Outside the city gates, snowbells were present in abundance, the flowers having grown beneath the snow and now showing their white petals.

"Hello, Master Frey," she greeted.

He stood before her with severity.

"You took long enough. Where's Brynjolf? Making wreaths?" He voiced the possibility with derision, and Prim matched his frown with one of her own.

"No, but he's in the Flagon...like everyone else," she added.

Fingers in his hair. She could imagine her fingers running through his hair. Karliah's fingers in his hair. His body curled against hers on the tundra. Hot breath on her ear. Heat rose in her cheeks at the thought as Mercer moved to walk by her, her sense of smell driving her crazy. She couldn't help herself. She leaned in as he passed and inhaled deeply, not even bothering to mask the movement or sound. She didn't expect him to respond—certainly didn't expect to suddenly find herself slammed against the wall. Her back collided with stone, stealing her breath.

_Oh divines_, she marveled, dropping the traveling packs. Mercer was pinning her against the wall with his body, a snarl on his face. He was either about to kill her or rip her clothing off. She couldn't decide which as he spoke in a whisper of steel.

"Do you think I haven't noticed? All the stolen touches in circumstances where you know you're safe? Where you can get away with it?"

His hands fastened onto her hips, and her eyes bulged. Hands. Where was she supposed to put her hands? They hung uselessly as his body ground against hers, muddying her thought process.

"You had a chance to stop your little game after Kynesgrove," he continued. "I was sure you would. But you had to..."

His neck. She wound her arms around his neck, cutting his words short. For a moment, his jaw clenched and eyes closed as if bolstering himself to face some threat, but her fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck changed all that. His lips crashed into hers, grappling for dominance as she decided to forgo thought. Consequences be damned. She was too swept away by the taste and smell of him to care.

"Not a game," she murmured.

Oh, but his scruff against her face felt wonderful.

"If I'd known you'd be this eager..." his voice rumbled against her skin.

"Oh my gods," a voice gasped.

Prim immediately came back to her senses, glancing sideways to find Sapphire standing in the tunnel with a completely dumbfounded expression. The female thief looked paralyzed until Mercer peeled himself off Prim and leveled her with a stare that would have killed a lesser woman.

"P...Prim," Sapphire stuttered. "I was wondering if you had anything to wear for the festival."

"Do we or do we not look busy, thief?" Mercer growled.

"Busy! I'll just...

"Go away. _Now_."

"I'll talk to you later, Prim!"

Sapphire was making a hasty exit back toward the Flagon, and Mercer's lips were again on Prim's neck as one of his hands seized her belt buckle. Dear divines, was he going to take her right here, in the tunnel outside the Flagon? Anyone could stumble upon them. Prim's blood pounded with need as her belt came loose, but voices were sounding down the tunnel, intercepting Sapphire. Brynjolf and Delvin were clearly audible, and Mercer's face darkened.

"This," he growled, "is not over."

He slipped back into a cold demeanor with ease while Prim scrambled to collect the traveling packs and her belt. She was quickly away, frazzled and aware of Sapphire's footsteps right behind hers. Mercer and Brynjolf were already talking business. Divines, but if Brynjolf had interrupted them, she would be bright red. Instead, she found herself faced with a very curious sister thief who did not look inclined to let the matter drop.

"Prim, since when have you and Mercer...?"

"Don't tell anyone," Prim requested. "Not yet. We haven't...It's not like I was prepared."

"Oh...Did he force himself on you?"

"No! Divines, lower your voice!"

"Hmm."

The two women stood facing each other in a long, awkward pause before Prim seized upon a bag from her chest of belongings.

"I have something to wear. Nura gave it to me. Maybe you could help me with my hair for the festival?"

"Sure. Of course. We'll need to make you the prettiest woman to see."

"Sapphire, I'm not in the mood for your insistence on getting a lover."

"That's not what I meant. You've already got one apparently. Or maybe the deal still needs to be sealed?" The woman wore a suggestive smile that signaled a recovery from shock. Prim frowned and pulled a dress from the bag she held. Nura had found it in an old chest, the garment apparently coming from the Bleaksnow family, and the fabric rich in color and quality. "I can't believe this," Sapphire continued.

"Just...oh, never mind," Prim sighed, defeated.

_Did that really just happen? _And since when had Mercer possessed such pent up energy to attack her like that? He had never initiated unnecessary touch that she could remember. Thank goodness the Flagon and cistern were filled with thieves due to the upcoming festival, because the thought of being alone and open to attack left her tense and tingling all at the same time. Mercer didn't even look at her as he and Brynjolf moved to the cistern's desk. What in Oblivion was she supposed to make of this?

With a sigh, she flopped onto her bed. Sapphire just laughed.

* * *

Riften was a gray city, but she was putting on her best for the spring festivities. Lanterns were strung over the streets, but not yet lit in the early afternoon sunshine, and the smell of food was heavy in the air. Market stalls that would normally sell armor or groceries had been replaced with hawkers of sweets and colorful ribbons, and women snatched up the latter to wind through intricately braided hair. That was the way of things and the current fashion. The festival itself would officially start with the jarl, who stood on the court's steps, overseeing the arrangement of musicians and guards. There would be music, food, and lots of mead. Maven was going to make a killing.

"It starts with a speech and traditional song," Sapphire explained. "Then everyone eats, and the children can watch puppet shows. Look! Even the Khajiit merchants have been allowed inside."

Prim looked to the newcomers, who sat on a bench outside the Bee and Barb, gesturing and examining knives. She'd heard that they would be putting on juggling acts for coin and free food from the city. Already, casks were being rolled out of the meadery and lined up behind a makeshift counter of sorts. Maven, dressed to rival the jarl herself, was overseeing the work.

"Loose hair," Sapphire cautioned, tugging a few strands back into Prim's braid.

The women had braided each others hair as was traditional, and had then wound the braids around their heads like crowns. There were blue ribbons for Sapphire, and red for Prim to match the crimson and white gown she wore. It wasn't the most popular style of dress, but elegant and trimmed in green. Her gold pendant hung down the center of the neckline.

"Ladies," Delvin winked, strolling by with Maul.

"I hope those two don't get drunk together," Prim smiled. "It never ends well."

Her attention was drawn away by the blowing of a horn and the jarl's voice. Lawgiver delivered a short speech to welcome spring, and a bard struck up a solemn tune about seasons passing. The crowd shifted in impatience, ready to get on with the festivities, although a few silently mouthed the lyrics along with the bard, hailing Spring's arrival. Then the horn sounded again, and people scattered, ready to eat and be busy. There would be no work today for most of them, although plenty of gold would exchange hands and line tavern pockets. It wasn't long before musicians let loose with a raucous tune that had children running through the crowd and twirling ribbons while people clapped.

"Come on!" Prim grinned, grabbing Sapphire. "Let's dance!"

They held hands and twirled one another to the beat, soon separated as men cut in. Prim lost count of how many hands she passed through, laughing and dancing with each taker, sometimes to their own steps, and sometimes in group dances where women and men wound between one another with bows and curtsies. A mage named Marcurio kept interrupting her dances, and then there were her fellow thieves who wanted turns as well.

"Prim!" Delvin chortled, grabbing and sweeping her into a spin. "Maramal cornered Vex!" He spun her to face where the priest had Vex looking utterly disgusted. "He's blessing her in Mara's name."

Prim sputtered a laugh as she found herself a flask of mead, and dropped onto a bench at the market's edge, exhausted.

"Go rescue her," she ordered. "Quickly!"

Delvin strode off, and she found herself alone for a moment. Divines, she'd even danced a little jig with Haelga, but where was the person she most wanted to see? She was acutely aware of his absence, and for a moment, was disappointed to think him in the cistern, ignoring the celebration altogether. But no, she spotted him. He was leaning against the blacksmith's shop, behind the forge, where the barrier afforded him some privacy. It had been one day since he'd unexpectedly grabbed her, and it was all she could think about. She wondered if he was intentionally doing this to her—intentionally holding back to revel in the threat of a surprise attack or to teach her a bit of her own medicine.

A game. He'd called it a sodding game, as if she'd known what she was doing to him. How was she to know that all those stolen touches had been stored in his memory?—that he'd viewed her with more than just passing lust and interest? Knowing that her brief encroachments on his person had not been brushed aside made her body hum as she studied him.

Jumping from her seat, she interrupted his peace and quiet.

"Master Frey," she smiled. "I didn't know you like festivals."

"Plenty of targets."

"Yet you haven't pickpocketed one."

He sipped on a bottle of mead and eyed her. It would be easy to slip away together, and they both knew it. She considered strolling away to see if he followed, but what if he didn't? And where would she go? Riftweald? Did she dare let him see her enter the manor to wait for him? But if he didn't come just to spite her, she would look a fool. He looked too controlled right now, like she was nothing but an annoyance to his current state.

"Prim!" Brynjolf called, waving. "You've spared a dance for everyone but me."

She faced the redhead as he walked close, his hand taking hers. She could feel Mercer's gaze burning a hole in the back of her head.

"Don't go anywhere," she told him. His expression fell flat, and he did not answer as Brynjolf swept her into dance. At this rate, everyone would be drunk and too tired to move come evening. Maybe there would be a break for dinner and a play. She didn't know—didn't care as her feet kept pace with the music, her eyes searching for Mercer with each circle around the market. He was there, watching from his quiet spot, until suddenly he wasn't. Brynjolf released her with a laugh, and she found Sapphire at her side.

"You've danced with every man in the city," the woman whooped.

"Not every single one," Prim exhaled, finally locating Mercer. He was leaving the market, strolling toward the Bee and Barb, and then he disappeared around a corner. This couldn't end before it even began, and with a rush of urgency, she sped after him. Her dress fluttered with a breeze as she rounded the corner of the Bee and Barb. Mercer was about to cross a bridge over the canal, to the opposite side of the city that would eventually lead him to Riftweald. She planted herself on the bridge in front of him, blocking his path.

"Mercer," she puffed, catching her breath. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Home. You're in the way." He tried to sidestep her, but she matched his movements. His critical expression made her squirm. "Unless this is guild business, I suggest you move."

"No. I need you to go back to the festival with me."

"And why would I do that?" She held her ground as he bore down on her, swallowing when a dangerous glint entered his gaze. "Is it a personal goal of yours to flounce around with every man in the city?" he darkly questioned. "You're even giving Haelga competition. Funny." He looked down at her cleavage. "I didn't realize you'd been taking lessons from her."

"You...You..."

"Or maybe you were just trying to get attention," he considered. "Mine? Cynric's? Brynjolf's?" he coldly contemplated. "Have you let anyone do more than touch your lips and hair? Teasing men but never letting them near? You're worse than Sapphire, and she's locked up like a fucking fortress. That key got thrown out a long time ago."

"Mercer Frey," Prim objected, laying a finger on his chest.

"Thief, if you don't move right now, I am going to fu..."

"Mercer! Be quiet or I won't tell you why I followed you over here."

Surprisingly, he listened. He loomed over her, eyebrows quizzically raised, and she stared at her finger where it touched him, tapping it twice in thought.

"I need to kiss you," she stated.

He had no time to react as she latched onto his lips, wrapping arms around his neck and pressing into him. He recovered quickly and took control of their movements, pulling her backwards with him against the Bee and Barb. Divines, she was stupid. She was so stupid, but he was kissing her numb, and when his hand wrapped around her waist, she lost any remaining logic. His other hand went lower, running over the contours of her backside.

"You taste like mead," Mercer breathed, tilting his head to better expose his neck as she nuzzled against it. She was running kisses along his jaw, sucking on skin as she reached his collarbone.

"Mountain brew. I left a bottle near Maven."

He smirked, and with an arm wrapped around her waist, pulled her through the Bee and Barb's front door. The people inside were too busy to notice them slip upstairs, and Mercer gave her no chance to protest as he continued his assault on her lips, hands roaming freely. Couldn't they just go to Riftweald? Apparently not. He seemed intent on not wasting another minute as her back was pushed against a door. His arms wrapped around her, picking the lock as she groaned into his mouth.

"What are you doing?" she exhaled.

"I've waited long enough," he ground out, pushing the door open.

He all but slammed it shut behind them, and then his hands were on her dress, untying the laces across her back and pulling it over her head. She laid a palm on his chest and pushed him away, keeping a few steps between them as she removed her blouse, leaving her in nothing but smalls. He made no move to touch her as his eyes ran over her body, prickling her with goosebumps and lust.

"Take it off," he ordered.

With a coy smile, she wrapped thumbs around the strings holding her smalls in place, but made no move to remove them. _Hands everywhere. Throw yourself into it,_ her mind whispered.

"You're wearing too much clothing," she stated.

"Oh?" he challenged.

His boots hit the floor, then his pants and tunic. He was more toned than she would have expected, a thin trail of hair leading down his chest to areas still hidden from view. He disposed of the last obstacle, and gave her no choice but to follow suit as his hands wrapped over hers, forcing her smalls down over her hips. He was pressed against her, an arm pulling her against his body. She was acutely aware of being out of practice as he took a moment to rub a thumb over a nipple, making it harden.

"That scar..." she murmured, staring at his chest. There was a circular scar near his heart, old and smoothed over, but still apparent. She tentatively touched it as though it might hurt him.

"Karliah," he stated, closing a hand over hers. He guided her lower, her fingertips trailing over his flesh. "Stroke it," he ordered.

She complied, touching him as he pressed into her grip. Her body was flushed with want as he slowly walked her backward to the bed. Then she was laying on it, and he was above her, holding her chin and keeping her gaze focused on him as he nudged himself between her thighs. Her heart beat faster when his other hand found the small of her back and angled her hips upward to meet him, her entrance brushing against him. A man hadn't touched her like this in so very long, and divines, but this was Mercer Frey. She wanted him so sodding...

"Mmm," she hummed, closing her eyes as he pressed against her, teasing her. His fingers bit into her chin, making her eyes snap open. Only then did he sink into her, and the pressure against her body's gentle resistance made her groan in pleasure.

"Wasn't expecting that," he grunted. "When was the last time someone had you?"

"Awhile," she dismissed, preoccupied with his rolling hips.

He rumbled a response in his throat, releasing her chin and keeping his hands braced on either side of her head as he stared down her, moving tortuously slowly. She was used to him now—could relax and let herself move to meet each thrust. He looked insufferably controlled, making her want nothing more than to shatter and make him moan. She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him closer.

"Faster," she urged.

"Oh, I don't think so," he denied with a smirk. "I'm going to take my fucking time. Do you have any idea how badly I wanted to bend you over and take you right on the fucking pier after you stole from Sibbi?" He pushed deep and held himself there, a finger running over her lower lip. "Or when you danced around the fire in Kynesgrove? Of course you don't."

"I had no...oh," she ended when he sat back, taking her hips with him. She arched onto the bed as he held her waist and worked it against him, guiding her movements to match his. She would give Nocturnal her soul on a plate right now if it would keep him from stopping. She gasped, and he held himself still, eyeing her critically.

"Not yet. Not for you," he growled, suddenly thrusting faster.

His breathing increased, mouth open as he lost his rhythm. She pulled herself up onto his lap and ran hands over his chest and back, winding them into his hair as his control finally cracked. He pushed her back into the mattress, and landed on top of her, pushing and holding himself deep as he exhaled and his muscles contracted. Divines, it was marvelous, yet she was so close to her own release without promise of reaching it as he ceased moving.

"Mercer," she groaned in protest, moving against his still hardened member.

"Hush," he spoke, rolling onto his back. He snaked an arm around her and used the other to lift her leg over his waist. She didn't know what he intended until his fingers pressed into her, curving upward to rub her still aroused body.

"Gods," she moaned, grinding onto his hand.

"Easy," he cautioned, maddeningly smug.

"Mercer. I need you to..." He rubbed a thumb over her entrance, and retracted his digits, leaving her to scowl. "You horrible man."

"It gets worse," he promised. "Hold still."

She did as he continued his ministrations, his movements slow and thoughtful, as though he were studying every little patch of skin. He certainly looked serious as he continued his examination, finally rubbing her in the manner she most wanted. Not moving was torture, but oh so delightfully arousing.

"That's it," she decided, moving her body more fully on top of him and grinding to her heart's content. He threw back his head with a smirk, and let her do as she pleased, her body tightening and then bursting with release. She collapsed on top of him and remained there, snuggling against him as one of his hands cupped her ass and pulled her to be eye level with him.

"Satisfied?" he asked.

"Very."

She pressed her face against his neck, breathing him and content to be wrapped around him. Whatever happened next, she captured this moment in her mind, gilded and set it on a neat cushion for future reference. She couldn't decide whether this was a culmination or a beginning, perhaps both or neither. She wasn't ready to move when he shifted from beneath her and stood, soundlessly dressing while she remained where she was.

"Don't pretend to regret this," he warned her, buckling his belt.

"Is that what you think I'll feel, or what I should feel?"

"I'll let you decide. Lady's prerogative." He took a step closer and lifted her chin. "But if you deny enjoying this, we'll both know it's a lie."

"Divines know I'm not very good at lying," she scoffed, rising and dressing. Her hair was a mess, so she let the braid free as she followed Mercer downstairs. She didn't know what would happen next, but the cool air outside was refreshing. She viewed the market and caught sight of Brynjolf, who smiled and motioned to where Delvin and Thrynn were playing some sort of throwing game. Mercer was already gone, or so she thought. She began walking toward the redhead when a hand wrapped around her waist once more, the guildmaster's mouth grazing her ear from behind. She watched Brynjolf freeze and stare.

"Thieves are covetous," he whispered.

Then he was gone, and she inwardly frowned, knowing that the display had not been for her. Brynjolf said nothing about it as she joined him and the others, for which she was grateful. His soft smile said enough, but all she could do was distantly watch the men continue at their sport, strangely at peace and lost in her own mind.

* * *

Nothing had changed. Prim dabbed her damp forehead with a cloth, and returned to a fighting stance, determined to give Brynjolf a challenge. Four days had passed since the festival, and in another two, Mercer intended to leave for Snow Veil Sanctum, their final destination in the hunt for Karliah. That was all fine and well, but nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing.

"You're not paying attention," Brynjolf admonished.

"Want to bet?" she asked.

They grappled and punched, using forearms to block and deflect blows, and both of them tired and sore. They'd been at this for the better part of the afternoon, the practice giving her mind a much needed distraction. Today would be their last training session, the remaining days until departure intended for rest, and she wanted to be ready. She felt ready—knew that she had enough fighting and stealth experience to be confident—but the entire situation with Mercer wasn't helping.

"Got you," she grinned, clipping Brynjolf's chin.

The man stepped back, and rubbed the place where she'd hit him.

"Oye," he grumbled. "And you remember the disarming moves I taught you?"

"As if I'd forget," she smiled, releasing her fighting stance. "I've had my fair share of hand-to-hand with the Companions, you know. I just haven't relied on it since getting a sword."

"I think we'd better call it a day," he suggested. "I don't want you sore for the trip north."

She silently agreed by flopping onto the floor and stretching out her legs. Thrynn was also present, working his blade against one of the wooden dummies. The man didn't need the practice, but apparently liked the feel of hacking wood. Prim found it strange, but the former bandit missed combat, and wielding a sword calmed him down, especially when he was in hot water with Vex. He'd only completed half of his last job.

"How are you feeling?" Brynjolf asked, sitting beside her.

"About the trip? Alright. I'm anxious to get it over with. Sitting around the next two days is going to be hard."

"And how's everything else?"

"...Fine, I think. I shouldn't expect anything to change. He seems to think that I'll regret it."

"Do you?" Brynjolf queried, calm and open.

"No, but I don't know what to expect either."

Brynjolf looked about to speak, but kept his mouth shut, seemingly lost in contemplation. She'd tactfully dropped a hint that she and Mercer had been intimate, but had said little else about it, and not to anyone except Brynjolf. Now, in the aftermath, she had no idea how to proceed. Her past relations had never gone beyond a single night, and poor Brynjolf had been at a loss for advice after the festival.

"Don't go soft," he finally said. "Whatever happens between you two, keep it out of guild business. He'll expect you to do jobs and address him properly in front of others just like before. He won't give a toss whether they know or not, but don't expect a...oh, how to say it? I don't want to depress you, lass, but don't expect a public change. Maybe not even a private one," he wryly added.

"I wouldn't expect special treatment," she said, thinking through the matter. "But...nothing's changed. _Nothing_. I wish that I at least knew whether he intends to keep doing this."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Brynjolf lowly mused, a hint of apprehension in his voice.

As the thief had told her, the guildmaster did not keep women around. In the past, Mercer had made use of a member or two, saying that a free fuck was as good as any, but the man quickly moved on, preferring the business transactions to be found elsewhere in Riften. For vague reasons, Brynjolf didn't seem to think that such would be the case here—didn't think that Mercer would toss her aside so readily. In fact, the thief seemed a bit concerned at times, although he hid it well.

"Have you considered that maybe he's waiting to see what you do?" he asked.

"Me? I've clearly expressed my feelings on the matter."

"But it sounds like he thinks you might change your mind."

Prim pondered the matter, and decided that maybe Brynjolf had a point.

"Maybe," she allowed.

"I'll leave the rest to you, lass."

She spent the rest of the day thinking too much and napping. It was soon dark outside, and Mercer had not shown his face in the cistern once the entire day. She climbed into Riften's night air, and meandered beneath the Temple of Mara, pausing as Riftweald came into view. The backyard's gate was spiked and screamed for potential intruders to beware, but more than that, the entire structure felt threatening as she studied its exterior. The shifting of shadows due to a passing guard's lantern made her think of Naya and being 'shadow-blessed.' If she reached out to the shadows, would she find them, and would they allow her to see beyond the manor's walls?

_Don't touch Nocturnal's domain more than you need to._

Seeing Mercer's past was in many ways an intrusion far too personal, and even as she considered the shadows, she felt nothing of their presence. Perhaps Naya had opened the doorway a fraction wider, but Prim was no longer at Nocturnal's shrine, and the darkness no longer felt quite as alive. She didn't know whether her brief journey into the shadows would have longer-lasting effects as she approached Riftweald and allowed herself inside.

She quietly shut the door, intent on being as silent as possible. Her boots were light on the stone floor and then the stairs, tiptoeing to the master bedroom. The door was open, and the room bare. Mercer was nowhere to be seen, but where else would he be if not the cistern or here? She considered the room with a frown, her plan already backfiring. She was here now though, and maybe she just needed to wait for him. Her intent would be clear enough either way, but what about going soft? Would she look silly just sitting on his bed, hoping for him to show up?

Oh, but she had an idea, a very risky but brilliant idea.

Prim stripped until she was naked, and left her armor on the floor, her clothing on the bed. She didn't exactly intend to end up rooting through Mercer's dresser, but she needed something darker than her lightly colored clothing. A black tunic. Perfect, and it was long for her, covering a fair amount of pale skin. The manor was dark enough that she didn't worry about the rest as she crept back downstairs. She waited in the darkest corner she could find, smiling to herself. Oh yes, brilliant.

How long she waited, she didn't know, but one moment she was alone, and the next, Mercer was striding through the house. She hadn't heard him enter at all, and she was close enough to the front door to know that he hadn't come from there. Where then? She puzzled over the matter, delighted that the master thief wasn't bothering with candles. He was quiet, but hardly sneaking in the confines of his own home, and so she could hear his path across the wooden floorboards overhead.

The stairs. The hallway. The threshold of his room, and then nothing. The silence lasted too long. Surely he'd seen her belongings, and realized that she wasn't in the bedroom. That could only mean one thing, and she peered into the darkness, slowing inching her way around a corner. Mercer Frey could be anywhere.

* * *

That little minx. Mercer lifted the clothing from his bed, and dropped it onto the floor. She wasn't in the bedroom. That much was clear, but then where exactly was she without any clothing? He'd come from the confines of the manor's hidden chambers, and what were the chances that she'd spotted him? Oblivion take it, but he hadn't expected anyone to sneak into his home, not that he ever expected such idiocy, and for all that was unholy, he couldn't decide whether this boded ill or good. There was a naked woman lying in wait for him somewhere, and it aroused him to no end as much as he snarled over the possible ramifications.

"Damn woman," he grumbled, exiting the bedroom.

_She came back for more._

He crept among the upper rooms, and did not find her, leading him back downstairs. For all he knew, she had found the hidden door within the basement, and was sprawled somewhere, injured by his traps. What a ruined evening that would make, but she wasn't there. No, he caught a glimpse of pale movement, but not as much as he'd expected. She wasn't entirely naked. That would make this too easy.

He anticipated her movement into the dining room, and circled ahead of her, entering from the opposite side, but she quickly retreated, disappearing back the way she'd come. He smirked and gave chase. This was a losing game for her, trying to out-sneak a master thief with years of experience on her. There was no reward for effort, as she was about to discover.

Not fast enough. She was already upstairs, keeping ahead of him and betraying herself by stepping on a creaky floorboard. He again circled around her, and this time, drew close without her awareness. His hands ensnared her waist from behind, making her jump, and her body tensed for a fight, but he would tolerate none of that. She finally stopped squirming with an annoyed huff of air.

"What," he demanded, "are you wearing?"

"One of your tunics."

He released her, and she spun to face him. She was smiling. He couldn't see her face clearly in the darkness, but just _knew_ she was grinning. He lifted the bottom of the tunic she wore to survey her long legs, all his for the taking. And she was his now. Her being here sealed the matter, and he wasn't about to let her forget it. Want pumped through his veins as she stepped closer, touching toes with him.

"You lose," he stated.

"I intended to be caught, so not really."

He snorted dismissively, removing his tunic from her. Nothing about her said regret as she swayed away from him, heading back to the bedroom without ado. Last he'd checked, the winner was supposed to dictate the rules, and he reminded her of it as he entered behind her and opened the curtains. Moonlight spilled inside, highlighting the best of her curves. He never allowed women here—didn't want them thinking it was an invitation into his home or life—but he'd be damned to get rid of the flesh dangling so tempestuously in front of him right now. He sat on a chair by the window.

"Tell me," Prim teased. "What would a master thief consider a worthy prize for winning?"

She strolled close enough for him to grab her hips.

"Sit," he ordered, pulling her onto his lap so that she straddled him.

Shadows take it! It wasn't like she hadn't intruded on his residence multiple times already. She ran thoughtful hands through his hair, making him wonder what was going through her mind. There was no reason to rush, and he relaxed into the gentle ministrations. He hadn't spent time like this in a woman's embrace for over two decades, and had forgotten just how soothing it could be. Prim was so trusting as she leaned against his chest. It was utter foolishness to give so much to another person.

"Have you never been used or betrayed?" he asked.

"I've stopped counting how many times," she mused. "In Daggerfall, I was used. After I left...I made a lot of mistakes."

"But not anymore?" he sarcastically queried.

"No, of course I still make mistakes," she sighed. "I'm just more careful about the gambles I take. I need to decide it's really worthwhile first."

She pressed a kiss against his cheek, sweet and undemanding. It made him cringe and yearn for pure, primal arousal, but this was a rare moment, and he was a thief. He understood the value of rarities, and decided to tolerate delay awhile longer yet. Perhaps she'd come here purely for physical release, but as her nose grazed the underside of his chin, he knew it was far more complicated.

_"I'd miss you."_

But others had cared, and they'd turned away as was apt to happen among their kind. He lifted the pendant that hung around her neck, and ran a finger over its smooth surface. He liked it on her—liked that she'd obtained it through stealth and violence.

"Have you had many lovers?" she asked.

"Not something women usually want to discuss," he noted.

"Maybe I'd like to know how I compare."

He felt her smile against her neck, and dropped the pendant.

"You'll make do."

She chuckled, calling his understatement and sitting up to hold the collar of his tunic.

"I suppose you have many thieves breaking into your home and running around naked," she teased.

Enough was enough. He wrapped an arm under her butt and stood. She in turn wrapped legs and arms firmly around him, allowing him to carry her to and deposit her on the bed. He made short work of his clothing, and then laid down, saying nothing as she climbed on top of him and initiated contact. His hands held her thighs, body humming as she began moving. Maybe she'd never used this position before, for she was tentative at first, experimentally wiggling this way and that. He didn't mind. She could take as long as she wanted. He was comfortable, and a young, beautiful woman was straddling him. Not bad for an otherwise boring day.

She eventually found her rhythm, and tilted her head back, hair spilling over her shoulders. He drank in the sight of her, and when he could no longer stand it, flipped her onto her back. He took the lead from there, preferring the dominant position as she writhed beneath him. The way she reacted sent a thrill down his spine, his name a whisper on her lips, but he still wasn't in a hurry. Again he turned her, this time onto her knees so that he could pull her backside flush against him and watch her back arch. An almost wolfish growl escaped her lips as a new energy animated her movements, urging him on as he groaned and pounded into her.

"The wolf must approve," he murmured, bending to fondle her breasts.

"I..." She didn't finish the reply as she tightened around him, throbbing wonderfully against him, and his release soon followed. He usually avoided releasing inside a woman, but only pushed deeper as he emptied himself. He _wanted_ it inside of her. The instinctual urge coiled through him as they wound up on the bed, side by side.

She hummed his name as she curled against him, one leg hooked over his torso. Already the chill air was making goosebumps rise along his skin, but he didn't move. Her breath and sated body were too much of a distraction.

He frowned when she eventually slipped beneath the blankets.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"Staying warm. It's much warmer under here, you know."

He joined her beneath the blankets, and stared at the ceiling as she scooted closer. They weren't quite touching, but he felt her body heat, her movements touching him through each pull and shift of the blankets. He should kick her out, but hardly intended to stop this business between them tonight. _Not for a long time_, he mused, looking at her.

"I'll leave in a moment," she yawned, followed by what sounded suspiciously like "Mercer muffin."

_A moment_, he scoffed. The woman's eyes were already closed, her chest rising and falling deeply as sleep descended. He made no move to wake her, but thought about it, envisioning her scowl and another intrusion on another night. He continued to think about it each time she moved and unintentionally woke him up, but morning came, and only then did Prim depart, hastily and with a fleeting kiss on his lips.

_You're mine now._

* * *

Prim sat on the walkway crisscrossing the cistern, feet dangling above the water. She watched ripples carry across the surface as she dropped a pebble into the darkness, and wondered what might lay at the bottom after so many years of occupation. She could imagine the cistern as it had once been, and hear Karliah and Gallus bantering back and forth, a young Brynjolf trailing behind and badgering Mercer with questions. She refused to think about it too much, her heart burdened enough without dwelling on a past long gone. Maybe Mercer would tell her the whole of what had happened one day, but not right now.

"Prim," Sapphire called.

She looked up as her sister thief sat down beside her.

"Hey," she greeted. "How was your job?"

"Good."

Sapphire loosened her hair from a bun, and sat combing it out with her fingers while a secretive smile played about her lips.

"Out with it," Prim sighed. "Whatever it is."

"Vex and Tonilia were talking." Not a good sign. "Because Delvin made a comment to Vex, because he'd been talking to Brynjolf, and..."

"Fine!" Prim blurted, quickly dropping her voice to a whisper. "It's true."

"Not that I didn't see it coming, but Vex doesn't believe it. Now that I have your word, I can put that to rest, unless...are you trying to keep it quiet?"

"Does anything stay quiet in this guild?" Prim smiled wryly, and glanced over her shoulder to where Mercer was working. They would leave for the north tomorrow, and he was making sure everything was taken care of in advance of his absence.

"Good," Sapphire beamed. "I don't know why I feel so strongly about it, but it's good. Just be careful, huh? Vex told me about how he is with women, and I don't want you to get hurt or anything. Rune and I just had a talk about...you know. What happens next. And it's awkward. It was like trying to put a troll in a dress. I can't imagine how hard it would be with _him_, if he'd ever even think about something long term."

"I don't think he would," Prim mused. "I'm just taking it a day at a time."

Sapphire hummed in agreement, and for a moment, they simply sat side-by-side, staring into the cistern's water.

"Does it last, Sapphire?" Prim softly asked. "Does something like this ever really last?"

"I don't know. It never has for me, but I hope it will with Rune. Hey," she prodded, leaning closer. "It's too early for you to be thinking like that."

"I'm not worried, just thinking. I do that."

"Do you want it to last?"

"...yes."

"Then do your best to make it happen."

_You're officially my sister_, Prim thought with a smile. They sat and talked quietly for the rest of the evening, because who knew when they would next speak? Once this business with Karliah was taken care of, perhaps guild life would return to a more normal routine. Prim hoped so, but before then, there would be travel and fighting, and idly, she wondered what kind of woman Karliah was now. She almost didn't want to know as morning loomed closer.


	5. Chapter 5

The northern reaches of Skyrim were still white, but the snow wouldn't be as thick, nor the wind as bitingly cold. The pines around Kynesgrove were already free of snow, adding a blanket of green along the base of the nearby mountains. Prim and Mercer would not be spending the night in the Braidwood Inn, nor even stopping in to say hello, not after Mercer had pilfered so many blankets on their previous visit. Instead, they continued late into the night, beyond the inn to settle in the forest. Divines, but Mercer was intent on reaching Karliah as soon as possible. They would need to slow their pace on the tundra, or risk exhaustion in inhospitable terrain.

Prim sat cross-legged before a small fire, warming the bread they'd brought from Riften. There was smoked ham and salmon to accompany it, and her stomach growled at the smell. Mercer was down near the road, standing on a boulder where she could see his dark figure. The man was no doubt staring northward and considering what might come. He had burned with a restrained energy all day, forever sharp-eyed and silent.

_Karliah might have been his_, she thought, recalling what the shadows had shown her. He claimed that the elf had never been his lover, and maybe he was being honest, but the potential had been there. Her glimpse into the past, however brief, had hinted at what might have been. Whether that had played a role in the falling out between friends, she could only speculate, but her hands held fragmented pieces of a tragic story, and she knew it.

She folded a slice of bread around ham, and began eating. At the edge of the camp, a shadow moved, too dark and well-formed to be a mere trick of the firelight. She frowned, and addressed it without reserve.

"There's nothing here for you."

The shadow didn't respond. Of course it didn't, but a strange tug brushed her consciousness.

_"Karliah knows."_

Prim stared as the shadow dissipated, concerned and struck by the oddly familiar voice that had whispered. Henric? She nervously finished eating, and wondered whether the shadow was still close enough to explain itself in images if not words. She was shadow-blessed after all, and while part of her admitted that this was probably unwise, she mentally reached into the darkness, focusing on night and rivers of black. There was a flutter of energy, and then nothing—nothing but a bottomless black that swallowed her whole. She closed her eyes against the compressing darkness, and when she next opened them, found herself inside Nordic ruins.

_I should have known better_, she frowned.

The stone chamber in which she stood was dimly lit by oil lamps, revealing niches in the wall where corpses rested in eternal sleep, or rather, what should have been eternal sleep. The dried husks of draugr held weapons as if ready to rise at any moment, but they apparently could not see or otherwise sense Prim. She was free to drift along the hallway, surprised when a cloaked figure appeared. The interloper was feminine in shape, and covered in leather armor beneath the cloak. Friend or foe, past or present, Prim couldn't tell, but then the woman threw back her hood, revealing purple skin and violet eyes.

"Karliah," Prim gasped.

As expected, the other woman did not hear her, and she drew closer to watch as the dark elf tied rope around bones. The macabre decorations were then strung across doorways and narrow passages. Traps, Prim realized. The woman was setting traps, and with lines showing age on an otherwise pristine face, Prim knew that this wasn't the past. Karliah knew that Mercer was coming.

_Oh shit_, she thought, backing away. It was time to return to the campsite, but the shadows were not done with her yet, or maybe they sensed her desire to see more, and were merely inclined to comply. She floated helplessly as the room crumbled away to reveal a different chamber, although where, she couldn't tell. She couldn't even move as the shadows carried her forward, her body a captive to whatever whim the darkness had determined. There was a man lying on the floor, gasping for air as blood seeped across the stones beneath him.

_Gallus_, Prim realized in horror. The man was expiring quickly, bloody and bearing slashes across his chest, but Karliah wasn't a swordswoman—had never fought with a sword according to Brynjolf—so why was this handsome man dying from such wounds? And the look of pain on his face! Not just pain, but anguish as his eyes rose to look at something or someone behind her. Prim could not turn, and found her eyes moist as the scene spun with emotions and words beyond her understanding. There was such a murmur in the air as to make her heart stop, and images assaulted her eyes.

Mercer as little more than a boy, bruised and beaten, slumped on a muddy street while Gallus offered him a hand.

Mercer and Gallus as young men throwing back drinks together.

Three masked strangers in dark armor with capes.

Gallus kissing Karliah while Mercer drank alone.

"Stop!" Prim yelled, overwhelmed, and once more, she was back in the ruins, watching Gallus's bloody lips move.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," the man lamented. "Never. Not between us."

His gaze froze, a last breath escaping his mouth before all was silent. Prim tried desperately to turn and see his attacker, instincts telling her that her expectations were all wrong, but the shadows had other plans, or perhaps Nocturnal did. She felt the daedra's touch as her spirit was plunged back through the darkness and to Tamriel's present. With a gasp, she was again beneath the night sky, grappling for air and bathed in sweat.

"What happened?"

Mercer's boots crunched across pine needles, and he knelt beside her, pressing a hand to her forehead.

"Don't tell me you're getting a fever," he grumbled, tone tentative as though he didn't believe it. His gaze was prying, and she stared at him in dazed thought. Was Karliah truly the one who had killed Gallus? She reached out and touched a hand to Mercer's cheek, his fingers quickly closing around her wrist to measure the pulse.

"I'm fine," she said, retracting her hand and sitting up. "There was a shadow."

"Shadows can manipulate light and watch the living, nothing more," he considered. "A shadow didn't do this to you."

"Sometimes they show me things," she stated. "When I went to Nocturnal's shrine..."

"You what?" Mercer questioned in a tight rumble.

Prim internally sighed, having not told him about the visit yet for this very reason. He wouldn't like it, and really, he didn't need to know that she'd been trying to learn more on her own either. He sat down beside her, and took food for himself, his movements swift and his gaze quickly returning to her.

"I just took a quick look," she explained. "There's a small shrine near Riverwood."

"You went with Brynjolf," he guessed. "What else have you been up to?"

"You talk like I'm up to no good," she scoffed. "Nothing happened, but ever since Henric blessed me, I see shadows sometimes. They take me into the darkness when they feel like it. I never see very much, just glimpses of other people and places." _Like you_. "Like now. I think it was Henric. He was talking to me, and then I saw Karliah setting traps. She knows we're coming, Mercer."

He stared at her without comment before a cold smirk touched his lips.

"Unbelievable," he mused. "You're fucking shadow-blessed."

"I've heard that before, but I haven't given myself to Nocturnal. The shadows simply see me."

"They _know_ you," he corrected, words cutting through the night. "And you've touched them. It doesn't matter that you haven't given yourself to Nocturnal. The shadows are hers, but not mere puppets, and who knows what the daedra means by it anyway. There's no escaping it now," he intoned, watching her as though to gauge her reaction. "For the rest of your life, you'll see them."

"You see them too, don't you?"

"Yes," he admitted. "But they've never shown or said anything to me. I've only known one other person who could converse with them."

"Karliah," Prim realized. "That's how she knows we're coming. The shadows told her."

She fell back onto her sleeping mat, and stared at the stars, finding that of all constellations, the shadow was directly above her. She'd been born under the sign, but hadn't thought much of it, not until tonight. How strange that it had seemed a mistake of birth until becoming a thief. Her mother had been born under the sign of the Lady. Now _there_ was a fitting symbol for a courtly woman as strong and fragile as any warrior, even as a monster had shredded the woman's mind. Perhaps darkness of one form or another was simply fated to overshadow her family.

"If Nocturnal is so wrapped up in this," she thought aloud. "She certainly isn't taking sides. Do you know that she spoke to me of one who betrayed her? But she didn't seem angry. She obviously doesn't care about the shadows talking to both me and Karliah, even though we're enemies. Some daedra get really involved, but Nocturnal seems more like Hircine, just watching and meddling when it suits her."

She closed her eyes as Mercer laid down beside her, nothing more needing to be said. They needed to rest for tomorrow, and both of them were too tired to continue conversing. It was comforting to have him close, even if they didn't touch, and even as she wondered at her most recent vision. It did not change how badly she wanted to tell him that she understood more of what had happened between him, Gallus, and Karliah than she should, but wisdom kept her silent. He would dislike her insight, and in the end, maybe it didn't need to be voiced. Some memories deserved to stay in the darkness.

* * *

Three more days passed, and the stone ring that marked Snow Veil Sanctum was visible from the hill where Prim and Mercer stood. Darkness was already descending though, and the rocky bluff behind them would offer protection from the cold. It would take weeks yet before anything grew through the land's snow, and even then, large swaths would never really thaw. Miserable land indeed, and while neither of them fancied sleeping in the elements, there would be no room for rest once they entered the ruins. The earth and snow would be their bedfellows for yet another night.

There was no question as to sleeping arrangements this time around. Mercer molded himself against Prim without comment, and she pulled him closer still. Tomorrow came violence and death, and the thought stayed on her mind as her fingers wound through his. She was not scared to enter the ruin or fight, but remembered the panic of thinking Mercer fallen during their last trip. He would scowl if he knew her concerns, but they were hardly petty. Caring made battle more complicated than it otherwise was, even as part of her thrilled at the idea of fighting with him by her side. The wolf and warrior she'd become knew that he was more than an adequate shield-sibling.

"Sleep," he murmured against her hair.

She lifted his hand, and pressed a kiss against the knuckles. He answered by moving the hand to slide her eyelids shut, his fingers trailing over her face. She gently smiled as the digits crossed over her lips, and fell asleep soon afterwards, listening to the brush of drifting snow across the sanctum's rock barrier. In the morning, it stood stark against the landscape, a stone pit at the bottom of which a sealed door waited. Mercer made short work of the complicated lock, and soon they were swallowed by darkness, transversing tunnels with the aid of cylindrical vents that were punched through the ceiling, and which offered air and sunlight. Even then, the air was stale, and most passages remained utterly dark. Recently burned candles and oil lamps hinted at visitors.

They came upon a stone stairwell leading down into darkness, and Mercer paused at the top.

"There will be no more vents," he stated. "People aren't meant to visit the lower reaches."

"There won't be light either," Prim mused. "I can see in the dark better than most, and my nose helps, but if we need to fight, I'd like to see what I'm hitting. Karliah was stringing enough traps for whole bandit clan."

"What do you smell?" he questioned.

She closed her eyes and inhaled, focusing.

"Old flesh," she said. "Draugr. A woman was recently here. She smells like wildflowers."

Mercer moved to one of the stone coffins that had been commonplace in the ruins thus far, and pilfered several of the unlit oil lamps lining its edge.

"Here," he said, passing one to her. "The light won't bother the Draugr. It's the noise that wakes them."

"Don't worry about me. I know all about Draugr."

A flame danced on the tip of her finger, and she lit Mercer's lamp, then her own. A soft halo of light enveloped them as they descended, casting shadows across stone blocks and intricately carved doorways. The architecture spoke of a time passed, when Nordic artwork had reached unparalleled heights in sophistication. The general frame of the hallways might have been simple and practical, owning none of the elegant curves and arches of other lands, but the scale itself was impressive, and interlocking engravings of animals and dragons, humans and the elements, caught her eye as they always did in such ruins. The light in her hands cast such images in striking relief.

"Pressure plates," Mercer warned.

She followed his lead to avoid the troublesome stones with their subtle markings, and then passed through a gaping doorway into a tunnel crisscrossed with tripwires. Draugr slept in stacked niches that lined the walls, sometimes four or five in one column. She and Mercer maneuvered around them as quietly as possible, finally rounding a corner into interconnected catacombs. There was no telling which way to go, although her beast pawed at the ground, anxious to move on. This series of tunnels did not sit well with her.

_We could easily get lost in here_, she thought, brushing Mercer's hand. He glanced at her, eyes dark hollows in the lamplight, and motioned to his right. Without comment, she allowed him to choose their direction. He seemed to know exactly where he was going.

He led her to a stone door bearing the engraving of a hawk, and knelt to examine a series of stone disks beneath it, his hands ghosting over the symbols. There was little for Prim to do as he worked, each scrape of stone as he turned the symbols making her nerves tighten. She thanked the divines that none of the dead stirred, although a particularly dark doorway drew her eye. _Was_ it a doorway? No, it was a tall, narrow hollow so deep that she could not see an end to its darkness. She drew nearer in curiosity, gently brushing cobwebs from her path. A strange smell came from within, old like Draugr, but with overtones of smoldering coals and something unnamed. Magicka? Maybe.

_Mercer had better hurry_, she decided.

She peered into the darkness a moment longer before stepping back, freezing as a soft gust of wind came from within and killed her oil lamp. Something in there was moving.

_Not good. Not good. _

She hurried to Mercer, and tapped him on the shoulder as he fiddled with the last symbol, the grating of stone signaling the door's unlocking. It didn't matter. One cracked and withered hand, then another, fastened around the edges of the hollow she'd fled. By the time a robed figure with a mask pulled itself free, her sword was already drawn, her eyes locked on the blue glow pulsing through the mask's slitted eye holes.

"Mercer!" she urgently whispered.

"What did you wake up?" he growled.

She didn't have time to reply, nor to launch an attack. The figure had fixed its glowing gaze on them, and with a deep inhalation of air through broken pipes, lashed out with words strange and powerful. A ripple in the air made Prim dive to the right, hitting the floor hard as the stone above her shattered. Debris and dust scattered over her body, and the force of magicka reverberated through the stones beneath her.

_What in Oblivion was that?_

She scrambled to her feet as hisses and brittle creaking echoed through the catacombs. The draugr were waking up, and Mercer's lamp had gone out, leaving the tunnels in complete blackness. She knew that the robed figure advanced on her only because of its dragging cloth and glowing eyes. She cursed under her breath, and launched forward with her sword, striking toward the head.

Her blade struck metal, then flesh, a blow against her chest slamming her backward into the wall. A sharp pain indicated cracked or broken ribs, but there was no time for that. A second intake of air warned her of attack, and forced her to dodge sideways. There was no ripple of unseen power this time though, but a ball of fire that erupted and briefly illuminated the corridors. Holy divines, there were draugr everywhere. Things were moving all around, darkness against darkness, and the sound of clashing weapons rang in her ears. Somewhere in the dark, Mercer was fighting.

"Fos..." That thing with eyes like burning ice was speaking again.

"Go to Oblivion!" she bellowed, lunging forward.

She skidded low to the ground, beneath the thing's mace, and stabbed upward through its torso and out the back. It hissed and flailed, and she was forced to abandon her sword to avoid injury. The large rock she found on the floor would need to make due. The creature was already on its knees, grappling to pull her sword loose, and that was all the time she needed. She aimed for its blue eyes, and smashed its face, relentlessly hammering away as it writhed and the mask came loose.

She was killing an ancient deathlord with a sodding rock. Stranger things had happened in life.

When the thing finally stopped moving, she set it alight, needing to see the remaining draugr that she knew were closing in. Flames burst from robes and leather flesh, and she retrieved her sword, gaping at the creatures struggling with one another to reach her. Vilkas would love to hear about this one, and he _would_ hear about it.

With a yell, she hacked and slashed, baring teeth as she used the narrow tunnels to her advantage. Shots of fire kept the dead burning—kept the battleground visible.

"Pathetic!" Mercer's voice snarled.

He was alright. Of course he was. She found him in a tunnel, felled draugr littering the floor around him. His dual blades were as impressive as she remembered, and soon the thieves fought at each other's backs, rotating and clearing the space. The final enemy died with a rasp, cursing them perhaps.

"So much for sneaking," she commented.

"No thanks to you," Mercer noted, sheathing his blades. "Injuries?"

"A rib or two, I think," she grimaced. "But not broken. I'll be fine."

They returned to the now open doorway, flames still burning behind them. Her chest ached, but that was the price for not moving fast enough. At least the way ahead was illuminated by sunlight filtering through grates. Were they nearing the surface again?

"She's close," Mercer stated.

"How do you know?"

"The puzzle door. They usually protect the last rooms in crypts like this."

She pressed a hand to her chest, and caught his attention in doing so. Wordlessly, he moved her hand aside, and pressed his own against her armor, grimacing as though he were undertaking a distasteful task. A coolness fanned across her skin, making her jump.

"Hold still," he ordered.

She did, calming as the coolness melted into her bones and eased the pain, driving it back to nothing. It was not an unfamiliar feeling. She'd been healed before, but had not expected as much from Mercer. Her face must have betrayed surprise, for he scoffed at her.

"I'm a Breton," he reminded her. "Before the master decided I didn't have enough talent and kicked me out, he drilled me on minor restoration."

"Does anyone in the guild know?" she couldn't resist asking.

"Why would they?" he dismissed. "Magic isn't my trade." She stared into his eyes with interest, but he quickly turned away. "Stop staring, and pick up your feet."

_You still know so little about him._

"When we get back to Riften, I think a warm bed and explanation are in order," she mused.

"You should be thinking about what's beyond this door," he reprimanded, making her exhale with a wry smile. He was right, damn it.

She waited in silence while he worked on the puzzle door, stunned that he didn't require the usual stone claw to open it. He even made an offhand remark about the doors being simple to open. Arrogant to a fault sometimes. She shifted, unable to stand still when Karliah was somewhere beyond the stone barrier. When gears turned, she and Mercer stepped through the doorway into a cavernous room of pillars and alters, the ceiling high above them, and the sheer size meaning an archer could be anywhere.

Mercer was at her side as she stepped around a pillar to better survey the interior. One step. One moment of suspended belief as an arrow punctured her body.

"Archer!" she shouted.

She dove behind a pillar, limbs sluggish as she swept eyes over her surroundings. She didn't know where she'd been hit—couldn't tell as her neck stopped working. Mercer was crouched behind the pillar next to her, staring at her, his lips pulled back into a snarl more suited to a werewolf than a man.

"Karliah!"

His voice boomed through the chamber. He would fight, and Prim told her body to get up and help him, but it refused to listen. Even her mind felt sluggish as it descended into a fatigue so deep that she feared she would never recover. She had to be dying. That was the only explanation as she squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to focus. When she could not again open them, she panicked.

"Long time, no see, Karliah," Mercer drawled from somewhere nearby.

"Mercer," a female tersely greeted. "I see you're still dragging people who trust you into danger. I suppose you've been raping the guild's coffers this entire time as well."

"Trying to insult me?" he challenged. "I haven't waited twenty-five years to trade barbs with you. Get your ass down here and fight."

"I'd be a fool to cross blades with you."

An arrow struck stone somewhere, but Prim remained helplessly prostrate. Her heart should have been pounding with panic, but instead, she lost its beat. She'd come close to death before, but it hadn't been anything like this, and all she wanted to do was scream at the top of her lungs.

"Is that the best you've got?" Mercer snarled. "Don't think I'll let you fade into the shadows for another decade or two. How many years did it take you to find the courage to meddle in Goldenglow? How about Honningbrew? My, my, wouldn't Gallus be so impressed."

"Don't speak of Gallus!" Karliah replied, voice filled with just as much venom as his.

_They were friends_, Prim mourned, an image of a bloodied Gallus again in her mind.

"He had his wealth, and he had you. All he had to do was look the other way," Mercer spat.

"He couldn't, not after our oaths. Even if we hadn't..." The woman choked on the words. "You will pay for your betrayal, Mercer Frey. Do not think you will get away with it this time."

"Don't you walk away from me," he sneered. "Karliah!"

Silence. For a moment, there was no sound, and Prim marveled that she had not yet succumbed to death. Then there were footsteps, and a hand rolled her onto her back, searching her neck for a pulse. He wouldn't find one, she knew, for she was nearly dead now. Or maybe she was already dead, and her soul simply hadn't departed yet. Maybe the divines were allowing her the pleasure of his touch one last time.

"_She_ was supposed to die," Mercer stated, voice muted. His hand stilled and pressed down hard on her throat. "Not gone yet," he murmured. "But soon."

Fingers grazed her lips, and then touched the collar of her armor, sliding beneath it and finding a golden chain. _My pendant_, she thought, feeling it pulled over her head. Something cold slid onto her wrist, but what, she did not know. She didn't know what to think about anything, Karliah's words ringing in her head, and Mercer's departing touch making her long to say something to him. Karliah hadn't killed Gallus. The betrayal hadn't been hers, and after everything she'd witnessed, was Prim surprised? No, not at all. It all made horrible sense.

"I suppose you'd be a liability now," Mercer coldly spoke. "Knowing the truth, would you say your trust was worth the gamble, thief? All those foolish notions you cherished like gold? Look where they got you."

The edge of a blade touched her chin. Akatosh have mercy, but what was he planning to do? Frustration, anger, and sadness engulfed her in a maelstrom. Mercy? The gods weren't being merciful by letting her feel his touch one last time; they were ensuring that she died hearing the very worst in Mercer's voice: contempt and fury. But why should he be angry with her? She was already as good as dead.

"Karliah will not take one more thing from me," he growled.

Pain erupted in her torso as a blade slid into her. Even in death, there was pain. In her mind, she cursed the aedra and daedra, and cried and laughed at the horrible ugliness of it all. Her mother had died better than her, at least choosing her fate, whereas her daughter would lay in a ruin, slain by the man she loved and left unburied for scavengers. At least the final hand to take her was someone worth fighting, and not an archer whom she both pitied and loathed as shadows played memories over her eyelids. Was it her pain, or was it Karliah's? Maybe Mercer's?

Prim lost consciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note**: My apologies for a shorter chapter, but I didn't want to cluster too many developments together and make it seem rushed. And thank you for all the feedback on the last chapter. You certainly gave me food for thought, especially since everyone has such different opinions on where this story should head. Your thoughts on how Prim should react were interesting, and I greatly appreciate everyone weighing in on that. Enjoy the update!

* * *

Eternity was disappointing. It was a small tent pitched on a snowy field, unless, of course, Hircine had planted her as prey in some game. Prim considered the possibility for a moment before realizing how foolish she was being. She wasn't dead, the pain in her chest and torso reminding her of just what had happened and whose hands were responsible. She experimentally touched her wounds, finding bandages beneath her clothing and a healing potion near her head. The tent housed two sleeping mats, making her wonder what stranger had stumbled upon and rescued her.

She drank the potion, and quickly laid back down, shivering despite several layers of blankets. She'd survived, but to what end? Her mind ached in time with her body.

_Mercer_, she internally sighed, throat constricting. He was probably already back at the guild, or maybe he was chasing Karliah out there in the wilderness somewhere. Would returning to the guild be safe for her now, after what had happened? He thought her dead, and if she turned up knowing the truth, there would be danger. A liability. He'd called her a liability, and it made her hands clench around the blankets. Was she truly a threat to him? Withholding the truth would be a betrayal of the guild, including Brynjolf, but sharing it would be the end of Mercer.

_Stupid man_, she thought, a tear sliding free. Part of her had known he wasn't innocent in the matter with Karliah and Gallus, and maybe she should have said something sooner. Maybe it would have changed everything, or maybe Karliah could have escaped Snow Veil Sanctum so that the matter returned to dust.

_Maybe there's nothing to do but let justice takes its course. _

"You're awake."

Prim jerked upright at the voice, searching for a weapon, but Karliah held her hands up to show them empty. Prim had little choice but to remain alert and let the woman take a seat beside her. The dark elf looked tired, but not hostile, a dagger clearly visible on her belt. Armor much like the guild's adorned her body, and a tentative hand offered a wineskin of water.

"Thank you," Prim cautiously accepted, drinking deeply.

"I am Karliah."

"I know."

The woman regarded her with curiosity, and Prim went limp in exhaustion.

"You have been recovering for three days. I wished to be away by now, but after what happened, I felt it my duty to see you better."

"You shot me," she stated.

"And you would have killed me at Mercer's side."

Mercer. Prim closed her eyes, and swallowed.

"Fair enough," she conceded. "Where is he?"

"Gone. Back to the guild, where he'll no doubt tell more lies to protect himself. You should be dead, but the poison on my arrow was meant to paralyze, not kill. I thought you were Mercer. I did not realize that he'd brought a companion with him. I should have looked more closely before firing. It seems my nerves get the better of me sometimes these days." She gave a tight, humorless smile, and located food for Prim. "Luckily for you, the poison also slowed your heart, and made it seem that you were near death. If it hadn't, I'm afraid he would have done more than stab you for hearing the truth. He's not a man to leave threats alive."

"He murdered Gallus, and blamed you."

"Yes. You are familiar with what happened?"

"More than you know," Prim grimly answered.

"Then now the full truth," Karliah softly spoke, no hate, only fatigue in her voice. "He went his own way. He betrayed a pact we made with Nocturnal, and began stealing from the guild. I knew some of what he'd done, but thought he would change if we talked through it. I should have said something sooner, before Gallus began to suspect something was wrong. He and Mercer were like brothers, and because of it, he took too long to realize the truth. One day, he asked Mercer to go on a job with him. He was planning to confront him away from the guild to make it easier, but instead..." Her hands tightened into fists. "Instead Mercer killed him. I had been following, and saw everything. We fought, but neither of us won, and he got to the guild first, poisoning them against me."

They lapsed into silence, Prim chewing on old bread, and finding her jaw stiff and unwieldy.

"The poison will linger awhile yet," Karliah explained.

"I feel like I died."

"I imagine so," the woman gently smiled. "...You have not asked me any questions."

"Should I?"

"I am merely surprised. You seem very resigned to what has happened."

"I am not sure there is anything to say," Prim quietly mused. "I have heard so many pieces of this story that I might as well have been there. I cannot change any of it, and the worst part is, I don't think anyone really got what they wanted. I certainly didn't."

"It will be made right, Prim," Karliah assured.

"You know my name," she noted, surprised.

"You woke up before now, more dreaming than conscious though. I am sorry that you have suffered in this, but the truth will be known."

_And what right do I have to even dare think otherwise? _None, Prim realized. The truth was going to come out, as it should, and that meant only one thing: someone was going to die. For all she knew, Mercer would consider her a target as well now, but part of her could not accept that. He had thought her near death, perhaps assuming that she would hate him for the truth. Perhaps she _should_ hate him, if only because her survival might depend on it, but she could not salvage enough angry fragments to fashion hatred.

"What do you plan to do?" she asked.

"Clear my name. I made a mistake waiting this long, and I will not wait any longer. Perhaps I will die, but I am sure Mercer has continued stealing from the guild. I will go to the cistern, and argue my innocence—make them open the vault. And you must come," she spoke, solemn. "When they hear what happened from one of their own, they will truly understand, but you are in no condition to fight. When they find the vault empty, Mercer will not be able to return. Until then, it is not safe for you. If I fail and am killed before I can speak..." She stared out the tent, into the snowy tundra beyond. "If I fail, you must not return. It would be your death."

"You are so sure of that," Prim noted.

"Do you think Mercer would let you live? He has already betrayed those closest to him, and stabbed you. I am willing to risk my life for this, but I cannot speak for you."

She imagined Mercer behind his desk, glowering and telling her to leave him alone, and then his form sitting by the fire in Kynesgrove, their verbal games, and finally his lips all over her body.

"I will go ahead of you," Karliah stated. "You should go to the Bee and Barb when you arrive, just in case it does not go well. If I do not come for you the same day, leave the city and do not come back. Enough people have died over this."

The woman began packing her belongings, setting a pack of supplies by Prim, who forced herself into a sitting position. If this was how it ended, she wouldn't let it carry her along like some useless invalid. Fate was not meant to be met laying on one's back, and Mercer would certainly sneer at her if she responded so weakly. One thing she would not do is run. No matter what happened and what Karliah advised, she would not just disappear.

_As if you could just walk away_, she mused.

"You will be alright on your own?" Karliah asked, sounding genuinely concerned. Prim took one look at the woman, and saw an echo of the caring and affectionate elf she'd seen in Mercer's past.

"I'll manage. You have spent enough time nursing me."

Belatedly, Prim remembered that Mercer had taken her pendant, stripping her of it before dealing the blow that should have ensured her death. She threw back the blankets to dress in her armor, and saw Karliah's face blanch.

"What is that?" the elf spoke, voice strained. "On your wrist."

Prim looked down at a golden bracelet with a green jewel wrapped in its wires. She pulled it free and turned it over, finding a symbol on the back that would have meant nothing to most people, but which made her eyes light in recognition. It was the insignia of her mother's line.

"Mercer gave it to me," she stated.

"Oh, that bastard," Karliah exhaled, face pinched.

"What do you mean?"

"He tried to give that to me once. As a present. It was right after we'd had an argument. One of many near the end," she sadly recalled. "He thought that he could buy my forgiveness—that gems could make it all better."

"Maybe he didn't know how else to ask," Prim quietly mused, tucking the bracelet into one of her pouches. She couldn't bring herself to wear it, and wondered why Mercer had brought it in the first place. Had he been planning to kill her the entire time? Or maybe he'd meant it as a mocking farewell to Karliah.

"Maybe," Karliah allowed. "You are a kind thief, giving such allowances to a selfish man like Mercer."

"If he tries to kill me again, I might need to change that." She stared across the snowy expanse outside, and yearned for something to break its peace. "You should go. You've waited a long time for this. I can make it back to Riften alone."

"Shadows hide you."

* * *

Something was deeply and terribly wrong. Brynjolf felt it was soon as Mercer stepped into the cistern, the man's expression dark, and his gaze unwavering. The guildmaster looked at no one as he neared his desk and opened the drawer that so disturbed his second in command. A stack of papers landed on the wooden surface, and after a long moment of consideration, the man quite suddenly approached and threw them into the closest brazier. Parchment crackled and burned, and with them, Brynjolf's throat constricted. Prim was nowhere to be seen.

He hurried across the cistern and reached the desk—saw a map with a hundred x's laid across it, and a list of names and contact information close by. Mercer's expression did not shift, and a quick glance told Brynjolf that his presence was unwelcome, but he wasn't about to leave.

"Where's Prim?" he asked.

Mercer leaned against the desk, eyes pinned on the map, and said nothing.

"Tell me where she is," Brynjolf insisted. "Where is she?" He did not intend to raise his voice, but the sound carried around the room, thieves stopping their activities to stare. "Mercer, where...?"

"Enough!" Mercer roughly ordered, straightening. "You will keep yourself under control."

The guildmaster reached into one of his pouches, and dropped a golden chain and pendant onto the desk. Brynjolf's chest tightened at the sight of it.

"She's probably on Hircine's hunting grounds right now," Mercer spoke, voice hard but muted.

Words deserted Brynjolf. He stared at the pendant, his chest tightening until he thought it might rupture, and his mind screaming that this was not possible. He did not know why Prim would be on Hircine's plane, but the implication was clear enough. His eyes implored Mercer to take the comment back, but the man said nothing.

"Was it Karliah?" he finally asked.

"Arrow through the chest."

"Shadows take her!" Brynjolf spat.

This was the second person that bitch had stolen from his life. First Gallus, now Prim, and once so long ago, almost Mercer as well. The old anger returned in a flare—the rage that had made a young boy smash plates around the Ragged Flagon until Delvin had restrained him. He'd struggled with tears in his eyes, finally stopping when exhaustion took over, and even then, it had only been throwing himself into helping Mercer that had calmed him. What had the man told him that one night, when he'd been brooding behind the cistern's desk, propped against the wall and surprised to find a recovering Mercer staring down at him? That's right, he recalled.

_"Death is the greatest thief of all, and a fucking showman."_

His anger had sharpened into revenge after that, but the years had passed. That anger had died, and its return dismayed him. He would not go back to that place. Never. Death was part of life. He'd known that Prim or Mercer might not come back, even if he hadn't seriously believed it would happen.

_Don't lose yourself to anger_, he ordered himself. _You can't go through that again_. _You're not a boy anymore._

"Did she die well?" he ventured.

"You're talking like a Companion rather than a thief," Mercer sharply replied. "Dead is dead. She fought, if that's what you want to hear. She killed a fucking deathlord...With a rock," he added, grim humor briefly coloring his tone before it devolved into bitterness. "If Karliah had aimed but a hair lower, she would have instantly died. The bitch must have used some sort of poison. Prim didn't react at all after she fell."

"And Karliah? Is she dead?"

"...No." Mercer leaned against the desk once more, such intensity lining his face that Brynjolf marveled the woman still lived. It must have killed the guildmaster to admit his failure. "She used an invisibility spell and disappeared, just like last time. But she won't survive, not again."

He thrust the list of contacts toward Brynjolf, who glanced over it with raw determination.

"I want every single person on that list to be on the lookout for Karliah. If they so much as see a female dark elf, I want to know."

"What if she flees to Morrowind again?"

"She won't," Mercer intoned. "It took twenty-five years for this to finally end, and to run again would be so far beneath even the lowest thief that it would break what remains of her heart. She was always sentimental. She can't afford to keep this game going any longer. She'll die, Brynjolf," he stated, the finality of it dreadful and reassuring all at the same.

"I'm going with you," Brynjolf vowed. "I was too young to go with you last time. Not anymore." Mercer slowly locked gazes with him, a thoughtful tilt to the man's head. "Do not deny me this request, Mercer."

"Are you hungry for a little blood, Brynjolf?" The challenge was accompanied by a note of interest and humor so twisted and vague that the redhead wished to be done speaking with his superior. "Fine," the man decided. "You will have your chance for vengeance."

"Thank you," he replied, wondering if he had ever said such words to Mercer before in his entire life. No, he thought, at least not with such deeply felt sincerity, and the promise of putting an end to Karliah relieved the anger that had threatened to take the reins of control.

"Get to work on that list," Mercer ordered.

"Aye. Consider it done."

Brynjolf watched Mercer sit down to brood over the map, and almost said more before thinking better of it. He turned, and left the man to his own devices, moving straight for the Ragged Flagon. Everyone would help spread the word about Karliah, and by everyone, he meant even Vex would stoop to carrying messages if need be. His boots were heavy on the Flagon's stone floor.

"Hey, Bryn," Delvin greeted with a smile. "I heard...What's wrong?"

The older thief pushed out a chair, and motioned for Brynjolf to take it, but the redhead didn't think he could stand sitting right now. He stood by the table, and dropped the list of contacts onto it, knowing how easily Delvin could read his stiff posture. Shadows take it, but everyone would be able to read him right now, even Dirge, who had little luck interpreting posture and emotions. He'd been in the Flagon mere moments, and already Vekel was setting a bottle of mead on the counter for him.

"Oye, what's this then?" Delvin asked, eyeing the list. "Are you alright, Bryn?"

"She's gone, Delvin."

Silence. The tavern went silent, all eyes on Brynjolf. Delvin leaned back in his seat, and rolled a toothpick between his fingers.

"Thieves usually have short lives," Vex commented from where she leaned against a stack of crates. "We all take the risk."

"She didn't botch a job," Brynjolf swiftly replied, voice hard.

"Let's not draw daggers," Tonilia calmly intervened with a small frown. "Vex didn't mean anything by it, Brynjolf. It's just the way it is."

"Aye, I know," he mused, finally sitting by Delvin.

Vex swiped the bottle of mead from the counter, and walked closer, holding it out to him. He nodded in understanding, and accepted it, wasting no time in downing the first gulp. Delvin muttered something beneath his breath, and scratched a hand across his jaw.

"Was it Karliah?" the man asked.

"Karliah?"

The shocked question rang through the tavern, and Brynjolf wasn't even sure who'd spoken. Perhaps the reaction had come from more than one of the thieves, and suddenly there was a charge in the air that crackled against the stones. Most of them didn't know why Mercer and Prim had left, only that there was an important task to complete. Vex's eyes sharpened, and she peered at the list, reading through the names.

"These ones," he instructed, pointing. "They're close enough to reach by foot. I want them to know today," he emphasized. "Get Vipir and Thrynn to help."

He would write letters for more distant contacts, and in the meantime, indulged in his mead. The Ragged Flagon was eerily quiet, although conversation had resumed. He ordered another bottle, and found Delvin regarding him with a frown.

"How's Mercer?"

"Fine," he replied. "Karliah wouldn't fight him."

"That's not what I meant."

Realization dawned on Brynjolf, wrapping around his insides with burning fingers, or maybe that was the mead. He ran a hand through his hair, and closed his eyes. Here he was, soothing his own loss, and he wasn't even the person whom Prim had grown closest to.

"Shit," he breathed.

"Then again, it's Mercer," Delvin shrugged. "The man's not going to say something to the likes of us. That's for sure. Lost cause worrying about it." The bald man set his bottle on the table, and exhaled. "I like to think the sweet thing got under his skin. She got the bastard out from behind that damn desk at least."

And had survived intruding on Riftweald, and had somehow enjoyed being snowed in with the surly man. She'd probably gotten more conversation out of the guildmaster than any of the other thieves. Brynjolf stood, and retrieved a third bottle of mead from the bar.

"I'm a fool," he pronounced, although whether because he'd only thought of this now, or because he was going to open his mouth, he wasn't sure. He entered the cistern, and approached the desk, setting the mead down in front of Mercer. Maybe the man didn't need comforting. To Oblivion if Brynjolf knew, but the guildmaster was abnormally still and silent as he regarded the bottle, and if nothing else, Brynjolf needed to say something for both of them. No one else would, not to Mercer, and the newer members could not possibly understand just how deeply this entire affair struck.

"I'm sorry she's gone," he spoke.

Mercer slowly took the mead, and fixed gray eyes on his second in command. With a slight nod, the man drank, and Brynjolf left it at that. The hard edge to his superior warned against anything further, and perhaps this was enough. Mercer would find Karliah. _They_ would find Karliah, and she would die, because there had to be end to this. He could not tolerate another open grave, and yet, he did not picture Prim in a grave. In the hollows of his mind, she smiled and laughed, and that was how he chose to remember her.

* * *

Days passed, and no word was heard of Karliah's whereabouts. Mercer was moodier than ever, and rarely in the cistern. When he did appear, no one dared to approach him, and the gears turning behind his eyes made even Brynjolf wary. Still, he spoke whenever the man appeared, both to report and merely say a few words. The man had just lost both a thief and his lover to Karliah, and someone had to make sure there was human interaction of some kind. The man could not persist on pure silence while waiting for the chance to even the score. Brynjolf had seen the results last time—insomnia and an obsession that he'd thought gone until finding that drawer brimming with letters and information. The thought of ever-controlled Mercer slipping back into such a pit troubled him more than the thought of Karliah's continued life.

_The guild cannot afford an absentee leader._

"No word yet," he stated, passing the man's desk.

"It's only a matter of time."

Mercer left almost immediately. The sooner Karliah died, the better.

Brynjolf entered the training room to speak with Delvin, but the older thief wasn't present. Strange. He'd been sure someone had entered here, and he'd thought it Delvin, but there was no one. Only as he turned to leave did he sense movement. His sword was drawn, meeting air as a leg tripped him. He fell to the ground, and found a knife at his throat. Eyes trailed from the weapon to a face he had not seen in so very long. Shock and outrage filled him, hands begging for a weapon.

"Brynjolf," the woman softly spoke. "You're all grown up."

"You made a mistake coming here," he threatened. "Go ahead and kill me, Karliah, but I'll at least have time to yell. The guild will rip you apart."

"Such anger," she breathed, sounding pained. How dare she sound hurt by his words! His hand inched toward the dagger at his belt. "Don't," she warned. "I am not here to kill anyone. Listen to me, Bryn."

"Do _not_ call me Bryn."

"Listen to me, and if you still think I lie, I will let you go to Mercer and the others. Perhaps I should start with something to make you value my life. Prim lives." He stared, disbelieving but hopeful as the knife was removed from his throat. "I see that I have your interest now."

"Aye. That you do."


End file.
